


The Unregarded Heart

by gowerstreet



Series: The world which hides at the corner of your sight [10]
Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of a Case, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Case Fic, Emotional Growth, F/M, Family Drama, Injury Recovery, M/M, Martin and Douglas are Mycroft minions, Multi, Serious Injuries, Sherlock learning to accept nonsexual affection and comfort, cabinlock AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-03-11 04:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 25,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3314741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gowerstreet/pseuds/gowerstreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The immediate aftermath of Shadows on The Horizon. A certain foe is dead for the second and final time, but at significant cost for all involved. Mycroft is fighting for his life. Not even The Work can protect Sherlock from the emotional fallout, but at least he will not be facing this alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The after effects of emotional implosion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EntropicCascade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntropicCascade/gifts), [221BJen (jcoz1701)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcoz1701/gifts).



> This grew from my 2014 NaNoWriMo entry. Many thanks to 221bJen for her tireless beta work on my behalf. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.

Sartre was wrong, thought Sherlock. Hell was not other people. Hell was watching the emotional implosion of those closest with little or no hope of repair.The thought weighed on his shoulders as the medevac carrying Mycroft and Crieff off to an unrecorded destination prepared for takeoff.  
The inn had become flooded with people; police, civilian paramedics and Department operatives. They swerved and bustled around him as he was no more than a ghost who drifted vaguely out of their way when requested.  
John was nowhere in sight. They hadn't allowed him onboard the medevac which was loaded with the type of equipment of which the NHS could could only dream. Anthea, trembling like an aspen tree, went instead.  
Sherlock had stood on the porch and watched the helicopter rise into the nondescript sky until it became a single, buzzing dot.  
He heard a familiar tread approaching behind him. Someone took gentle hold of his arm. John, in doctor mode. His default after the apex of a crisis. His calm professionalism continued to shield Sherlock from the rest of the idiots, and vice versa when required. He could generally be relied upon to defuse the situation.  
But not today. Today the army doctor was barely better than his principal patient. They borrowed each other's strength and stumbled back into the bar.  
The paramedics saw them coming. One of them, a lad who seemed barely old enough to be qualified, caught John's gaze and scurried away, leaving his kit behind like an offering to the gods who walked amongst them.  
Sherlock's adrenaline had evaporated, leaving his body shaking with shock and malnourishment. He folded onto the padded settle. John pulled up a chair and began rooting through the paramedic's kit for what he needed.  
"Open up," he ordered. Sherlock frowned until John produced a humbug and unwrapped it, then his jaw dropped of its own accord, giving him the look of an oddly-dressed fledging. "Good. let it dissolve. No crunching, so no talking until it's gone." He watched Sherlock's eyebrows emigrate into his hairline. "Right. Hands out. Your best starfish, please." The sharp tang of antiseptic swam across Sherlock's senses. John unfolded the sterile cloth and precisely wiped his fingers until he had eradicated every visible sign of Crieff’s blood from his hands, then sealed it into the hazmat bag provided.  
“Finished that sweet yet?” Sherlock nodded. “Prove it.”  
He did so with bad grace.“Where are Agnes and Marianne?” he demanded.  
“With DI Spencer Harris, having their statements taken.”  
Sherlock frowned. “Why aren’t you with them?”  
“Important as they are, right now I needed to ensure that you were upright and functioning and ready for your debrief. Once that’s done perhaps we’ll have more news about Mycroft and Crieff."  
“Hmm. Where have they been taken?”  
“RAF Northolt. There’s a specialist anti biohazard team there plus a very strong surgical trauma team.”  
Sherlock took a breath, as if to tamp down his emotions. “When can we get there?”  
“Clearance is being arranged, but realistically Mycroft’s going to be beyond reach for some time.”  
Sherlock spotted a figure approaching from the corner of his eye. Richardson, another of his brother’s minions, acknowledged him. “Your presence is requested, Mr Holmes.”  
Sherlock glared. “Nope. I am not going anywhere until Dr Watson has received treatment.”  
Now it was John’s turn to glare. “It’s all fine, Sherlock. I stumbled getting down and through the priesthole. Painkillers will sort it out.“  
Sherlock remained distinctly unconvinced.  
“You’re standing off-centre, and the tremor in your hand is increasing. I’m going precisely nowhere until you agree to being checked over.“  
Stalemate.  
“Dr Watson.” Richardson's smile was curtly professional. “I have my orders from DI Spencer-Harris to ensure that you have not come to harm. It will take five minutes of your time, perhaps less.”  
John acknowledged defeat. “OK, OK, but no needles. Seen enough of those this week.” He turned to Sherlock. “Off you go. I’ll see you shortly.”

Richardson turned out to be as good as his word. His evaluation of John’s condition was swift and efficiently carried out with a dry sense of humour.  
“Are you sure you haven’t any feline DNA?” he asked as John replaced his shirt. “Think you might have lost a couple of lives recently.” John’s eyebrows quirked.  
“Less of a cross-species mutant, more like some pixelated git from a console game. I used to be a career soldier in a past life, remember?”  
“True, but would you consider keeping everything inside the custom-built fleshbag for the time being, eh? Can’t be dealing with the fall of any more men at this point.”  
John recognised the concern hidden behind the apparent flippancy. “I’ll consider it. And sorry for earlier. I am the worst patient on record when I’m not flat out and unconscious.”  
“Forgotten already. You’re a doddle in comparison to Sherlock.” Richardson zipped up his kit and pointed John next door. “Off you go. But any unexpected tiredness and get yourself seen pronto. Understood?”  
John nodded. “Thanks again.”  
“Part of the job.” Richardson watched him leave before headed off in the opposite direction.

\----  
Anthea took pride in her ability to hold everything together, whatever the circumstances. Her ability to assess a situation and act accordingly had given her the reputation of being as implacable as Mycroft himself. But the voicelessness of the medevac cabin threatened everything. Her stomach shifted uneasily with every breath she forced past her lips.

Mycroft‘s existence was now measured in discordant beeps and chords. He lay, still and unnaturally pale, cocooned by the technology which sustained him. He hardly seemed to be the same man with whom she had spoken earlier that day. He was in good hands – the best hands, as they all were- and that would have to do.

Martin lay on her other side. She turned her head, straining her eyes to count his breaths, and realised that his lungs were doing better than hers, despite his injuries. She cradled his hand between hers and stroked his palm. His eyes fluttered at the touch and his lips parted. She leant in towards him.  
“Got to stop rescuing fair maidens.” Her voice whispered over his cheek.  
He gave a tiny huff. “Part of the life spec. Sorry. How’s the boss?”  
“Holding up. Although somewhat precariously.”  
“Hmm.“ His lips brushed against her cheek. “Stay.”  
“No chance of me going anywhere. I’ll stay as long as they let me.”  
“Good.These drugs are quick.” The glassiness of his eyes threatened her fragile smile.  
“Well let them do their work, Romeo.” She pressed another kiss into his cheek, and watched as he drifted back into sleep.

The helicopter sped towards London across the darkening skies.  
\----  
“So what now?” demanded Sherlock, observing the years which had descended on Spencer-Harris’ face since the morning.  
She blinked and cleared her throat carefully. “Our first priority is securing Mycroft’s recovery.” She glanced at the clock behind Sherlock’s head. “They should be at Northolt shortly. We’ll know more once their team has assessed him.”  
“ And what would will you have me do?”  
“Nothing as of yet. Even I can see how strung out you are. Eat, sleep and wait for Mycroft to wake, as he will.”  
“That could be days away,”snapped Sherlock. He heard the click of a door, then a gentle pressure on his arm.  
“We’ll find something,Sherlock.” John’s voice broke through the fog surrounding his brain. “Right now, my main focus will be keeping you, Marianne and Agnes as calm and safe as possible.”  
“None of us are children, John.”  
“Clearly.” John perched on the edge of desk nearest Sherlock “This is a fucking mess which will take time and all of your genius, but not when you’re in this state.” He looked across at Spencer-Harris. “How long before we’ve been given security clearance for Northolt?”  
She consulted her laptop screen. “Go upstairs and grab what you need. The rest will follow you to Baker Street. Northolt will be expecting you later.”  
John stared at her. “What about Agnes and Marianne? Not leaving without them.”  
“Marianne will stay at Baker Street, either with Mrs Hudson or in 221c, whichever seems more appropriate. Agnes will remain with you. Their statements have been taken, and they are free to leave.” She looked at them both. “I take it that will do?” Sherlock stared straight ahead, all energy spent.  
“That might work, providing all are agreeable,” replied John. “May we see them?”  
“Certainly, but be prepared to leave in fifteen minutes. No more.”  
“We’ll be there,” John assured her as he pushed Sherlock to his feet and out of the room.  
\----  
Richardson’s driving meant they reached Baker Street within the hour. The silence was deafening.  
A white-faced Mrs Hudson was waiting at the front door of 221. She patted his arm as they passed,but said nothing, for which Sherlock was grateful as swept upstairs. John was a second behind him.  
“Message?” he asked.  
Sherlock threw the phone at him.  
John opened the text. “Anthea. MH out of surgery. Placed under heavy sedation to assist progress of antidote therapy.”  
The phone jumped in John’s hand. He opened the next message. “MC currently in theatre. Minor intracranial bleed. Surgeons cautiously optimistic.” He looked up, finding only empty space where Sherlock had been.  
He found him braced against the fireplace, as if he was holding up the whole world. John placed the phone on the coffee table, then hovered behind him.Their eyes met in the mirror. The pain and exhaustion he saw there fractured him. “How can I help?” he asked, and realised the mistake he had just made. Sherlock’s shields rose invisibly around him and closed him out.  
“Leave me be,” he growled. “Go fuss over Agnes. After all, she killed a man today.”  
John stood his ground. ”She's not the only one dealing with shock, Sherlock, and it'll only get worse if you don’t accept treatment.” He watched cautiously as Sherlock’s glare evolved from annoyed to volcanic. His eyes shone with a confused fury. Coming closer would most like result in further violence, physical or otherwise, for which John had no appetite. Instead he went in search of tea.

The kitchen cupboards had been mysteriously restocked. There were several of Mrs Hudson's tupperware boxes stacked in the fridge, on the off chance that anyone felt like eating, as well as two pints of milk. Bless her.  
The subtle thump of the flat door duetted with the click of the kettle. John turned around. Agnes stood in the doorway, bag under one arm, and a wriggling, disgruntled Ethel under the other. She lowered both to the ground. John wrapped his arms around her, just as he had done earlier. Now, as then, she buried her face in his shoulder.

Ethel stalked around the room, leaping from surface to surface as though the floor was contaminated. She threaded herself through the detritus on the mantlepiece, coming to a halt directly opposite Sherlock's bowed head. Two pairs of unearthly eyes stared at each other, with a combination of fear and curiosity, before a furred head butted against stiff fingers and caused them to bend into a caress. Ethel edged closer, the soft barbs of her tongue swiping the tears as they fell from Sherlock's increasingly glassy eyes. He caught John's gaze in the mirror. "Piss off," he snapped.  
Ethel drew back, her tongue sticking out in retort, but she chose to stay put. John said nothing, but released Agnes and turned back towards the kettle, absorbing the aggression like a sponge. He made the tea, loading each cup with sugar. He left one on the edge of the mantelpiece, then headed back towards Agnes.  
"We'll be upstairs," he said. "Give us a shout if you need anything."  
Sherlock's head whipped around. "Why ever would I do that?" he snapped.  
John sighed. "No reason at all."  
\----  
John curled himself around Agnes, but could find no comfort in her drowsing warmth while Sherlock fragmented in defiant isolation downstairs. He strained his ears against the silence of the flat, and realised how it terrified him. The stand off had to be broken, before grief and fear acquired a deadlier edge.  
His phone rattled with unread texts. He pulled it out and started to read.  
John. SH  
John. SH  
JOHN. SH  
Come down. SH  
Come down. SH  
I need you. SH  
Please. SH  
I'm sorry. SH  
Can't breathe. SH  
Help me. SH  
John sighed, then sent a single response.  
Come here, you utter pillock. JW

Unusually cautious feet made their way up the stairs, and the door swung open. Sherlock made an awkward figure filling the doorway, his arms full of a concerned Ethel, who wriggled free at the first opportunity. John untangled himself from Agnes and reached for his hand. “Sit. Shoes off.”  
Sherlock shuffled forwards, suddenly all elbows and knees. He perched on the closest corner of the bed and fumbled with his laces. His fingers felt flabby and oversized, far too clumsy for even the most basic of tasks. He stared, disbelieving, as John knelt and removed his shoes before toppling in the centre of the bed.  
Agnes opened her eyes a little and held out a hand to Sherlock, guiding him down onto the pillows until she could feel the huff of his breath on her face. “Shh, easy now,” she whispered. “Try to sleep.”  
The mattress shifted as John joined them, fitting himself behind Sherlock. Agnes twitched a blanket over them. Sherlock’s breathing steadied and the trembling faded as the warmth of the bed overtook him. John’s hand rested on his shoulder; Agnes’ pressed delicately against the curve of his skull. He closed his eyes, finally accepting the security that the embrace of those who loved him most could offer him.

\-------


	2. Unconventional Practice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A back-lit figure stood at the foot of his bed, held together by the knotted belt of her mac.  
> “Angel,” he murmured.  
> “Not quite, you pillock.”
> 
> Anthea waits at RAF Northolt, in the smallest hours of the night.

Life hadn't precisely flashed before his eyes as he slumped to the floor, but Martin was fairly sure that this level of consciousness wasn't a normal part of his regular existence. Voices loomed at him, loud and blurry,seemingly broadcast through an unseen and unrepaired megaphone. Dr Watson swirled in and out of view, barking orders.  
A taller figure replaced him. Sherlock. Hands spanned his head, maintaining a constant pressure as the agony washed over his squelching scalp. The screaming and shouting continued.He looked up through pain-glazed eyes. A word struggled through his thoughts. Seeg? Cig? Zeeg? The next wave pulled him under before he could focus further.  
\--  
The unrelenting chug of the medevac engines woke him. Anthea cradled his hand between hers as though it was something precious. He managed to ease some of the strain in her eyes with some banter about chivalry before the sedation took him under.  
\--  
Softened light. The subdued chorale of life support technology. Oxygen tubes up his nose. A cannula entering his right hand. The pressure of an oximeter on his finger. A snug band spanning his temple. Filtered air scented with disinfectant. Hospital.  
\----  
"Ms Milson?"  
Anthea blinked herself awake. Her eyes swam, then focused on the tall figure in blue scrubs who stood in front of her. "May I have a moment of your time?"  
She looked up the corridor, taking in the gentle smile and welcoming voice. “Certainly.” She stumbled up, caught out by the cramp in her legs. He held out a hand to assist which she took gladly.  
“My name is Dr Porter from the surgical team. Mr Crieff is resting comfortably, and is in the process of being moved to the ward. If you could follow me?”  
Her relief stilled the words in her throat. She nodded as they headed off in companionable silence through several anonymous and deserted corridors before finally pausing beside an intercom. He pressed the button.  
“Hi sweetie.” A woman’s voice flowed like treacle through the speaker. Dr Porter grinned.  
“Hi. Can we come in?”  
“Only if you’ve brought a visitor for this fine young man. He’s awful lonely in here.” There was a buzz and a whirr as the ward doors glided open.  
“Jus’ finished getting him settled. Come on through. You mus’ be exhausted, sweetheart.”  
Dr Porter led Anthea down through the ward towards a room at the end. “I need to get back to theatre,” he explained.  
“Oh, more’s the pity.” A small figure in green scrubs appeared in the doorway. “ Haven’ seen you down here in a while, Dr Chris.”  
“I do apologise. We’ve been on the busy side. Ms Milson, this is Sister Wilkinson. Mr Crieff is now in her excellent hands.”  
Anthea looked over at him. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”  
“My pleasure. Good night,” he replied before leaving.  
Sister Wilkinson smiled. “Don’t stand on ceremony, darlin’. Call me Dolores.”  
“Well, that makes me Anthea. Could I see Martin- I mean Mr Crieff?”  
“Of course. Through here, sweetie.” She indicated the open door.  
Anthea stood at the foot of Martin's bed, focusing on the rhythm of his breathing, just as she had done in the medevac. It was slow, deep and steady, assisted by the oxygen prong in his nose, echoed by the chorus of discreet beeps from the machinery which leaned against the walls.  
Dolores appeared at her shoulder. "Both of your boys are on their way back to you. Tea?"  
"Erm, that would be lovely, thanks." The words came out automatically as she dropped her bag at her feet. Her boys? Hardly the term she would have chosen. Mycroft was his own man, and Martin was what- colleague? Friend? Lover? The idea of choosing one above another seemed impossibly crass, especially when Martin was unable to define it for himself.  
\-----------

A back-lit figure stood at the foot of his bed, held together by the knotted belt of her mac.  
“Angel,” he murmured.  
“Not quite, you pillock.” She stepped closer to take up his free hand. Her lips brushed his knuckles.  
“ S’what you look like. Always have done. How long you been standing there?”  
She swallowed before answering. “Long enough.” Her smile was fragile and her eyes glittered.  
“Where are we ?”  
“Somewhere specialist behind link fences and guard dogs.”  
“Northolt, then.”  
She huffed in spite of herself. “I couldn’t possibly comment.“  
“I think you just did. And the Dark Lord?”  
“As well as can be expected. Upstairs, under a chemical cosh and intensive monitoring.”  
He blinked to dislodge the grit in his eyes then looked directly into hers. “S'what happens now?”  
“I thought that would be obvious ” she replied, all mock distance and chill. “You go back to sleep and don’t damage yourself further.”  
He considered the idea. “Only if you do the same.”  
Only one bed, and you’re in it.”  
The painkillers allowed him a slight grin .“Didn’t stop you last night.”  
She rolled her eyes. “That was before you decided to fling yourself into the path of a bullet. I’m not convinced that bedsharing is recommended clinical practice.” Tempting, though.  
He pulled weakly at her hand. She allowed him to lift it as he continued. “But I can see you thinking about it. This mattress got more than enough space.” His lips pressed a kiss into her knuckles.  
“Tease.”He watched her soften. ”I’ll ask the doctors.”The door swished behind them.  
Dolores appeared, carrying a set of scrubs and a towel. ”You’ll ask the doctors, what, Honey?”  
“Is it OK if I stay here tonight?” Anthea looked around the room. “I’ll make sure I’m not in the way.”  
Dolores smiled. “You’d never be in the way. Let me see what can be done.”  
“There’s space in here for two,” suggested Martin.  
Anthea blushed. “I’m still not sure that’s a good idea. You’re still connected to the network.”  
“Here.” Dolores pushed the scrubs and towel into her hand. “You look done in.Let‘s get you out of those clothes.” She pointed to a door in the alcove. “Bathroom’s just through there. Hang your stuff up on the door. Now off you go, while we do a little rearranging.”  
Anthea acknowledged the defeat graciously. “Thank you.”  
She returned, ten minutes later, feeling refreshed and relatively comfortable in the borrowed scrubs.  
Martin had been shifted to the left side of the mattress, resting close to the guard rail. He was held in place by two thin bolsters, which left a sizeable portion of the bed empty.  
He grinned at her. “See? Plenty of space.”  
Anthea remained unconvinced. “What if I knock you in my sleep?”  
“You won’t hurt him, sweetheart. You'll be fine.” Dolores put a jug of water on the cabinet. Just as long as you both actually sleep. Now get yourself settled."  
Anthea tried not to blush as she slid cautiously in next to Martin, who was drifting away. She flashed another bewildered smile. "Thanks."  
Dolores tucked in the sheets and raised the second guardrail. "Not a problem. " She pointed to the call button. " I'm on shift all night, so don't hesitate to call if you need anything. I'll be back in just before six, to get you set up for the doctor's rounds. Night."  
"Night," replied Anthea.  
The lights were dimmed as Dolores left. Anthea snuggled as close to Martin as the bedding allowed. He slid his arms around her. Passion could wait; protection and reassurance could not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are always welcomed with a cup of tea and the seat nearest the fire. If any mistakes remain, they are entirely mine.


	3. An Impossible Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s here. He’s coming for me, isn’t he…?”  
> “No he’s not.” Sherlock’s voice. “He can’t touch you now.”  
> “But I can smell him. I can feel him on my skin. He’s in this room…” 
> 
> The night draws on, bringing its own terrors.

Sherlock woke up to find himself comfortably tangled in a nest of limbs, none of which belonged to him. A first, and certainly an intriguing one. He leaned back into his section of the pillows and focused on the sounds of the street below. A handful of cars. Two night buses, one with a faulty exhaust. Some point before four, then.  
Ethel stretched, then launched herself onto Sherlock's chest. She tiptoed around Agnes' bare arm, preferring his covered shoulder. Her tail flicked once, twice over John's face, but he didn't stir. Eventually it found a home wrapped around her body and she turned to glare at Sherlock, paw extended. He lifted his hand to let her paw fit comfortably into his palm. A series of blinks passed between them. She flexed her claws, in and out, tickling his skin as he smoothed the fur on her spine.  
Agnes whimpered and turned away from him into a tight ball, her breathing breaking into ragged sobs. Ethel jumped away to the safety of the windowsill. Sherlock stretched out. His hand came to rest on the curve of her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “ Agnes. Agnes, wake up. You’re safe. We all are. Wake up for me.” No immediate response. Sherlock stroked her hair, willing her to be calm and failing.  
Then she shot upright, eyes wide and confused, staring at her hand which seemed oddly dark in the half light. Sherlock became aware of a earthy, coppery smell. He reached out to touch Agnes, only to feel the clammy stickiness there.  
She screamed.  
John was out of bed in an instant, scanning the room. He fumbled for the light, still looking for danger, and found Sherlock pulling Agnes under his chin and soothing her quiet, the dark outline of her hand imprinted on his t shirt. He flipped up the duvet and saw the stain pooling under her. Sherlock saw it and nodded.  
John sat on the end of the bed. “Agnes. Agnes, can you hear me?” he crooned, focusing on being calm and still. She looked towards him, wide-eyed and confused.  
“He’s here. He’s coming for me, isn’t he…?”  
“No he’s not.” Sherlock’s voice. “He can’t touch you now.”  
“But I can smell him. I can feel him on my skin. He’s in this room…”  
Her panic was infectious. John caught the look in Sherlock’s eye, and decided to take over.  
“Agnes.” A stronger voice this time, a shade closer to army than doctor. “Listen. You’ve had a nightmare, a bad one, but it’s over. You’re in shock, and it looks like your hormones have just pulled a fast one to come on a week ahead of schedule. Nothing that a warm shower and a change of clothes can’t fix.”  
Agnes blinked hard and clung onto Sherlock’s shoulder. “Everything hurts. Think I’m going to be sick.”  
“OK. I’ll get you something, but you’ll need to eat as well.” John slid off the bed and found his dressing gown. “Think you can walk?”  
“Not really.”  
“I’ll take you.“ Sherlock juggled her in his arms to gain a better grip. “Hands around my neck, and no wriggling.”  
John watched him in vague amazement. Sherlock threw him a look.“It’s not as if you’re in a fit state to lift anything more than the duvet.” He stood, waited for Agnes to settle, then headed downstairs. John stumbled after them.  
\---  
Sherlock deposited Agnes on the closed toilet seat and switched on the shower to get it to a suitable temperature before backing out. John was on the landing, arms full of towels.  
“This is good of you.”  
Sherlock’s eyes crinkled slightly. “Logical actions are a highly effective antidote for nightmares, John, as I have repeatedly proved with you. Besides, the distraction is…” He struggled for the right word. “Helpful.”  
“Still good of you. Need another mission? We’ll need to relocate. Is your room still a biohazard?”  
“Only if you take exception to my washing.”  
“Would you mind? Agnes needs all the sleep she can get and my bed will need airing. See to the kettle. Hot drinks all round, then back to bed.”  
“Yes, Doctor.”  
\---  
The water felt good against her skin, as did John’s hands. Half doctor, half boyfriend, they covered her in suds and let the shower sluice her clean until she felt more rational.  
John snapped off the water and hopped out first. He handed her a towel, then reclaimed his pyjamas. He noticed the other pile of clothes which now rested on top of the radiator. “OK for a moment? Need to check up on our consulting idiot.”  
“Sure. Sorry about everything.”  
“ I’m an ex- Army doctor. Virtually unshockable, as it happens. Nothing that can’t be fixed.” He pressed a kiss onto the curve of her ear. “Get dressed and come through.”  
\---  
There were three mugs of cocoa, a plate of digestives and a packet of ibuprofen lined up on the coffee table. John watched in astonishment as Sherlock bustled through, arms full of soiled sheets, which he thrust into the washing machine.  
“Since when have you …?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Rehab. Ten years ago. Self sufficiency was part of the regime.” He added the powder, then set it off on a quiet programme. “Besides, I needed something to do.” There was no arguing with that.  
He strode through towards John and picked up the Union Jack cushion. It received a particularly vicious shake before he lay on the sofa and thrust it under his head, snagging the afghan over his legs. "My bed will be more comfortable if there's only two of you in it," he declared as defence against John’s growing frown. "Both of you will make better use of it than me. The sofa will be more than adequate for my needs."  
"No it won't." John picked up his cocoa and advanced on the sofa. "Shift yourself, you great lummox, or I'll do it for you." Obstinate feet reluctantly shifted up the sofa."Thank you." He ignored the frozen toes which burrowed under his thigh. "With everything that's happening, and all the things that might yet, I’d rather keep the most important people in my life within sight. Within touch, preferably."  
Sherlock's gaze glittered on the edge of his vision. "At least that way I can be sure that you're safe." He took refuge in his mug, waiting for the type of mocking rebuff which usually came his way when someone was on shaky ground. But none came forth.  
Sherlock turned his back on the room, his head exploding with conflicting thoughts. He would not shiver because he was not cold or upset. And there would not be a repeat performance of his earlier meltdown. There could not be. He was an adult, not a snivelling toddler in need of comfort and reassurance. There was little or no point to getting used to this attention. Not when. Agnes and John needed each other. He'd gone through his meltdown and recovered as much as he was likely to. He didn't want need to become used to the comfort of their presence, no matter how it calmed him, only to face losing it again. He curled himself into an even tighter ball, tucked in his feet and scrunched the light out of his eyes. Alone was better, or it would be, once he'd acclimatised to the shift in their circumstances. 

He focused in on the sounds of the flat. An emptied cup which clicked against the table top. The ebbing of the shower. The bathroom floor which creaked under Agnes' awkward feet. He felt John turn towards the sound, and expected him to leave. 

Instead there was a feather-heavy drift of a hand against his shoulder, backwards and forwards. "I'm not going to make a choice between you two, so stop this martyrdom right now." The tender ferocity of John's words washed over him. " As I stated earlier, Agnes needs both of us, and I need both of you safe and sound, and within my sight and touch, if you can bear that."  
Sherlock forced his eyes to open, and focused on the pressure of John's hand on his shoulder. "This isn't how it works," he mumbled. "Romantic partners take precedence over friends.They always have."  
John huffed. "Not in my worldview."  
"Or mine." Agnes shuffled over to the sofa in John's slippers. Sherlock angled his eyes to catch a glimpse of her. Pale, clearly in still in pain and somewhat dazed, but fighting her way through it. She reached down and gently cuffed his scalp. "Fuck other people's opinions. They don't live here. You do, and you matter to us. Now shift up, sit up, drink up. Then we will all go back to sleep. Together."

The transport was traitorous, conceding defeat before his mind could object. Sherlock drained his mug, and even accepted the half biscuit which John pushed at him. An odd warmth he couldn't classify spread through him and lasted as they folded into each other in the expanse of his bed. There was space enough for all of them in here, just as there seemed to be in their hearts. The impossibility of it all demonstrated its truth.


	4. Talisker Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas becomes the bearer of difficult news. His errand is somewhat enlightening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RL tripped me up again, but the bones of this story are in place. I hope to updating more frequently than I have done. Thank you to everyone who has been following this.
> 
> 221bJen continues to be a fabulous beta. Go read the hell out of her fics. Any remaining mistakes are entirely down to my post-beta tinkering.  
> Additional thanks go to Spacedmonkey13 and EntropicCascade for their continued support and encouragement

Carolyn Knapp-Shappey woke suddenly just after midnight without quite knowing why. She heard the creaks of the house settling, as well as the whisper of the radio which lulled Arthur to sleep in the back-facing bedroom. She leaned up against the headboard and focused on what she could hear. Nothing.  
But Snoopadoop was less convinced. He jumped off the bed and stuck his nose under the curtains, paws clutching at the windowsill, his tail unnaturally still.  
Caroline looked across the room. The angle of wardrobe mirror gave her a glimpse of the street. A sleek black car drew to a purring halt outside, its tinted windows shielding the driver from view. The silence grew again. Probably nothing. She lay back down, and was on the verge of sleep when her mobile rattled insistently on the bedside cabinet. She frowned. Who could be texting at this hour?

_Please excuse the intrusion. I have a message from Anthea Milson regarding Martin Crieff. D Richardson_

Her fingers spat the words in reply.  
_And why should I believe you?_

The response was immediate.  
_I must speak with you urgently. It’s Talisker Day. DR_

  
Carolyn recognised the phrase which Martin had given her months ago, in case of emergency.  Her throat tightened. Her lashes threatened to grow spiky and damp. Not now, she schooled herself, but it took several breaths before sending a final text.  
_Come in._  
__  
Carolyn opened the door, grim-faced. Douglas Richardson stood on her porch with a drawn face and shadowed eyes. He held out his card for her inspection. She nodded. “You’d best come in.”

She showed him into the lounge, snapped on the light, blinding them temporarily. “Are you going to request that I sit down?”  
Douglas tried not to sway on his feet. “It might be better if we do.”  
“Very well then.” She took up her usual chair, and watched him perch on the edge of the sofa. “What’s happened to the chivalric clot now?”  
“Martin was injured in the line of duty, alongside Mr Holmes, earlier this afternoon during the resolution of an incident in Suffolk.” Carolyn absorbed the news, then swallowed visibly.  
“How is he?”  
“Improving. He underwent surgery to stabilise a relatively minor head injury, and is recovering in hospital at RAF Northolt.”  
“I see. And how is Mr Holmes?”  
Douglas stilled. “He remains in a critical condition.”  
“Who does?” A tall figure in Paddington pyjamas filled the doorway. His hair fluffed around his face in downy spikes, and he stared at them with an awkward anxiety. “Is it Martin?”  
Carolyn pulled on a brittle smile. ”Arthur, you are supposed to be in bed instead of listening at the door, but now that you’re here, we need tea.”  
“Is this a Code Red?”  
“Not quite, my darling. You can join us afterwards if you sit quietly and do not interrupt.”  
“Yes, Mum.” Arthur disappeared. Vague sounds of an empty kettle meeting the tap could be heard.

“And that is Arthur. What he lacks in brains he makes up for with patience and kindness. He’s an assistant at an old people day centre.”  
“I believe I’ve heard Martin mention him. They’re close, aren’t they?”  
Carolyn looked away. “Arthur might struggle with this. His reaction to bad news is to try to make things better, even in the tiniest way.”  
“I see.” Douglas swallowed. “How much does he know of Martin’s work?”  
“I think we’ve been told as much as Martin can tell us. Arthur understands that he works for someone important who collects a lot of Air Miles.”  
Douglas couldn’t help grinning. “There’s some truth in that.”

There was a rattle and squeak as Arthur wheeled as though it was the most normal thing to do at a quarter past three in the morning. He poured the tea, offering the milk and sugar as though serving at the Savoy.  
“Thank you, Mr Knapp-Shappey.”  
Arthur beamed. “Oh, call me Arthur. It’s much nicer.”  
Douglas sipped his tea. “You make excellent tea, Arthur.”  
The tips of his ears pinked. “Thank you. I went on a course in Ipswich and everything. But what’s happened to Martin? You’ve got one of those sad serious smiles that they use on Casualty.”  
Carolyn frowned “Arthur...” she began, but Douglas put up a hand.  
“If I may?” Carolyn nodded, so he continued. “I’m here because Martin did something brave and got injured as a result. He’s had an operation but he is going to be fine.”  
Arthur’s eyes widened.“When will we be able to see him?”  
“In the morning, I expect.”  
“Could I take him a present?”  
“I’m sure that he’d like that. “  
“Back in a mo.” He hurtled from the room.  
“Trying to save the world again?” asked Douglas.  
“Something like that.” There was the glimmer of maternal pride in Carolyn’s voice. “How long will it be before Martin’s allowed home?”  
“Perhaps as much as a week, but I haven’t had a chance to see him since the incident.”  
“I do hope he’s alright. I first met him when he was an awkward, scrawny thirteen year old who rescued Arthur from a tree on his first day at secondary school. Arthur found a hero and Martin had a new friend, and it went on from there.” Her eyes stung, and she had to focus on the carpet pattern to keep the tears on the inside.  
“He always seemed to fit better here than he did at home. Don’t get me wrong about the Crieffs. They were solid, dependable guardians, but I don’t think they understood him. “ She smiled wryly.  
“He didn’t let them in.”  
“Very few have earned that privilege, but once won, it’s for life. He’s like the boss in that regard,” replied Douglas. “And while Mr Holmes is somewhat more polished and devious in his actions, they act on the same impulses.”

Arthur burst through the lounge door, hugging a grubby bundle of white fluff which he thrust at Douglas. “This is LeBear Polar. He’s very good at keeping people company.”  
Douglas stroked its fur reverently and inclined his head. “Most kind of you. I’m sure Martin will be delighted to see him.” He stood and shook Arthur's hand. “I hope to see you both again soon under better circumstances.”  
“Precisely, Mr Richardson,” replied Carolyn. “Good night.”

\---

Carolyn shooed Arthur back to bed. She switched off the lights and headed back to her own room. Snoopadoop was a puddle of snoring darkness in the corner, where he had stayed all along. She stood in the lee of the window and watched Richardson’s car slink off into the night. An intriguing man for intriguing times, clearly.


	5. The Fragile Sentry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wider world knocks on the door of 221b. For once the Game is not on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks due as ever to the superstar, super-speedy beta 221bjen, who gently reminded me tonight that five comes after four. The world's a better place for her being in it.

Somehow everything had fallen silent at the same time, and it was the reverberating beep of the bin lorry which woke Sherlock several hours later. That, and a genteel hand on the flat door, followed by the tentative scrape of a key in its lock.   
"Coo-ee. Sherlock?"   
"Here." The door creaked open a few inches. Her eyes widened when she saw the tangled shapes under the duvet. "Oh." Her face coloured. "I’m sorry. I d-didn't mean to intrude."  
Sherlock merely shrugged. "Experimental treatment for nightmares and PTSD. Seems to have been successful so far. If it's a client, tell them to email. I have neither time nor inclination for the problems of the general population."  
"It's DI Lestrade. He's most insistent. Won't take no for an answer."  
Sherlock groaned and reached for his phone. Five missed calls, all from from GL.

This could be classed as police harassment. SH

The response was immediate.  
No, that would be when an unofficial warrant is involved. I need three minutes of your time. GL

That's all you'll be getting. SH

Sherlock looked up and realised Mrs Hudson was still there. "Put the kettle on, if you would. And let Lestrade in."

  
“Just this once," she replied, her composure returning. "Not your housekeeper."

  
"I know. Just an excellent landlady."  
  
Sherlock slid reluctantly away from Agnes and John and tucked the duvet back around them. Ethel opened one eye, and decided to follow him in the heartbeat before he closed the bedroom door. She darted ahead, taking residence on Lestrade’s lap simply because he was there.  
Mrs Hudson put down the mugs on the coffee table. Lestrade nodded thanks as she left.  
Sherlock picked up one of the mugs and stared into it.  
“Rough night?” asked Lestrade.

  
“Keep your voice down,” Sherlock snapped. ”Some people are still asleep.”

Greg frowned. “I thought John’s room was…”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There’s always been more than one bed in this flat. A relocation was required to combat PTSD symptoms.” He did not feel the need to elaborate..

“Ah.“ Lestrade reached for his tea. Ethel glared until he replaced his hand on her spine.

“What's the latest from Northolt??”

“According to Anthea, both seem to be responding to treatment, although Crieff is making more progress than my brother, and that no news is good news. Tedious.”

“Sherlock, I hardly think...”

  
“Your problem in a nutshell, Lestrade.” Sherlock's stare should have turned him to stone. “I would appreciate you coming to the point.”

Lestrade took a breath, then some tea before answering, recognising the shift which had taken place. Sherlock appeared singularly unused being a next of kin. He deserved more patience than he would possibly accept. “I’ll ignore your attitude for now, as I appreciate that this is a hellish situation, whatever you might outwardly express about Mycroft. A police liaison will be assigned to the case, as per standard procedure.”

Sherlock looked towards the window. “Marianne Reynard is staying downstairs with Mrs Hudson and will be for some time. I believe that she will find such assistance more helpful than Agnes.“ He turned back towards Lestrade. “Is there anything else?”

Lestrade nodded. “There has been a preliminary examination of the incident and the Suffolk force has decided that Agnes’ actions have been ruled as self defence in the light of Reynard’s behaviour, and that she will not be charged.” He watched Sherlock, and spotted the moment that the words reached his brain. He blinked, then angled his head to recapture Lestrade's gaze.

“I am glad that the locals have more foresight than the Met with regard to jumping to conclusions. Now is there anything else?” Lestrade’s hand clenched and unclenched against the arm of the chair.

“Only that this is one hell of a fucking tangle. I’ll need you onside at some point, before some bigwig sweeps in and shuts everyone out.”

“Eventually.”

“And what does that mean?”

Sherlock’s eyes thinned to shards. “Your serial killer was identified, at significant personal cost to those close by. I believe that if you look hard enough, there will be sufficient evidence to link Reynard to the blast at the Newmarket morgue. All that remains for you is the paper trail, which even you should be able to complete. At this point I have nowhere near the time, energy, and inclination to deal with your tribe of idiots, especially as it is unclear as to how much of Mycroft will emerge from this.“ The breath rushed out of him before he could continue. “Might I suggest that you focus your attention closer to home? One failed relationship is bad luck. A second might be seen as callousness and Molly deserves better.”

Lestrade took a deep breath and focused on the way Ethel’s fur rippled under his fingers. The air in the flat seemed to thicken and sour around him. “That was a low blow, but one I’m prepared to ignore, given the circumstances.” His voice grew dangerously calm. ”Molly sends her love, even though she barely knows which way is up right now. Don’t think anyone does, to be bloody honest. This is a fucking mess at every turn, and I barely know where to start.“

Sherlock glared at the opposite wall. “Try the beginning,” he hissed. “All political careers end in failure. Reynard’s was no different.”

“He was Civil Service. I thought that lot were above politics as a matter of professional expectation.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There’s more to politics than the Westminster echo chamber. The Civil Service _is_ the British government, or rather, tells the Downing Street morons what to think, what to do, then lets them think they came up with the idea.” He closed his eyes.”Speak to Anthea. I think you’ll find she knows a great deal more about Reynard and some of his nefarious connections than you think.”  
Lestrade looked aghast. “ You’re not suggesting she… I mean she’s worked for him for *years*... You can’t think that…”  
Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t.” His words had a deadly grace. “There are files within files to which only she has access. Speak to her. She’ll need something to distract her while Crieff recovers and Mycroft….” He frowned at his own inability to continue.He raked his hands across his scalp, as though he’d find the end of the sentence there.  
“I get the picture, Sherlock.” Lestrade’s tone had gentled. “Look, I’m sorry. Just keep in touch. I’ll speak to Anthea, and see what she is prepared to divulge without invoking the the Official Secrets Act. Give my regards to John and Agnes. I’ll see myself out.”

Sherlock pointedly ignored the careful latching of the flat door and the resigned tramp of Lestrade’s feet. He clasped his knees to his chest and tucked in his head until all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears. But nothing could stop words which rampaged through his mind. _When Mycroft woke up. If Mycroft woke up_.

  
He had to. He just had to.


	6. Something neither earned nor deserved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Love is something which is neither earned nor deserved. If it's not freely given, it's not worth having."
> 
> The emotional fallout of recent events continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks as ever to go 221bjen for beta reading at impressive speed during the busiest week for just about everyone on the planet, and also to Darth_Nonie for reminding me that this really needed an update. D_N, I have no idea where you are on this bluey-green marble, so will this suffice instead of a Christmas card?  
> More coming soon... I promises
> 
> \---

Even though Sherlock closed the bedroom door in near-silence, it was enough to wake John, if not Agnes.  
"Heard voices. What's up?"  
Sherlock perched on the edge of the bed. "Lestrade." His voice came out as a whisper. "Wanting help as ever. Said I'd consider it."  
"That's not like you."  
Sherlock glared. "My priorities have changed." He began to shiver. "Why is it so fucking cold in here?"  
John reached for his hand and pulled. "Exhaustion is catching up with you. Get yourself back in here and warm up."  
Sherlock folded himself back into the bed, in front of John this time, cautious to ensure that Agnes did not wake up. The duvet was flipped around him, clamped into place by the weight of John's arm. He was embarrassed to admit how comforting it felt. He regretted snapping at Lestrade, which space which in itself surprised him. In recent months, most elements of his life had sprung back to where they had been, albeit with the odd wrinkle which hadn't existed before. John's forgiveness, once the grief and anger had subsided, had been central to this. Agnes had brought another level to his life, and even Mycroft had become less of an annoyance. They were closer now than they had been since Mycroft had abandoned him for Eton, leaving a six-year-old Sherlock confused and alone.  
But now… ? For the first time since reclaiming his brain from  drug abuse, Sherlock felt unable to predict the outcome. No. That was wrong. Mycroft would live or he would die, like any other human being. But the concept of him surviving as a fractured remnant instead of as the stuffy, superior brother was terrifying. John might be the principal source of comfort in his life, but Mycroft was the architect of his existence. Britain would wobble without his stolid influence on the governmental steering wheel, but Sherlock feared he would disintegrate entirely.  
There was a sudden pressure in his chest, pushing his lungs into a smaller and smaller space. The room greyed around his eyes. Someone close was calling his name, as though from another room and there nothing he could do would bring them closer. A fuzzy, suffocating dark pulled over him.  
"Sherlock? Sherlock?" John watched as Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head and every muscle stiffened. "Sherlock can you hear me?" Fuck.  
The concern in his voice woke Agnes. She glanced across. "What’s the matter?"  
John took a moment to answer he scrabbled at Sherlock's wrist, hunting for pulse which seemed distant. "Panic attack, I think either that or shock. Stay here. Keep your hand on his pulse, and count the beats. Back in a minute. I need my kit." He sprinted out of the room.  
Agnes was sitting up in bed when he returned. Sherlock was lying on his side, his head resting against her side. John watched his breathing for a moment. Neither particularly regular, nor sufficiently deep enough for his liking, but it would have to do. "Pulse?"  
"Between one hundred and ninety. Getting slower and stronger."  
"Good. Keep monitoring. I want to check his eyes."  
He pulled out a pen torch. Sherlock's response to the light was sluggish but measurable. The torch was discarded as he crouched beside the bed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face.  
Agnes' hand pushed through Sherlock's hair with firm steady strokes. He blinked and gasped like a fish drowning in air, eyelids flickering. All signs of his sharp wit had dissolved, leaving behind an overtall child fighting against bewilderment.  
– – –  
Smaller hands stroked his scalp. _Agnes_. Larger ones pressed stethoscope to his chest. _John_.  
When he opened his eyes, the ceiling rose seemed to be the safest place for his gaze, until John loomed into view.  
"Welcome back. Gave us a bit of a moment just now, but I think you'll be fine."  
Sherlock's eyes bore into him. "How can you be so sure?"  
John regarded him with affection. "Medical school, plus general practice. Your body decided to take over your brain. Happens more than you think during periods of extreme shock. You can only take so much crap, so start admitting that and accepting the help that's on offer."  
"I don't know how to do that." He felt Agnes turn his head gently in her hands until he was facing her.  
"Let us in." She snuggled down the bed until his head was on her shoulder. "That better?" He nodded.  
"Good."  
John put the stethoscope aside. "Right, tea and toast." He moved off the bed. Sherlock's phone vibrated on on the bedside cabinet. He winced visibly and looked up into John's eyes.  
"OK if I get that?" Sherlock gave him a tiny nod.  
"Fine. But food first." The phone was scooped into the pocket of John's dressing gown as he headed out.  
Sherlock held in on himself into an even tighter ball against Agnes. "I don't know how you do this."  
Agnes let her fingers trail through his hair again. "I take it a minute at the time. It's all I can do. Everyone I care about is as safe as they can be. I have to accept that. Being scared for those whom you love is what it means to be alive. Right now, everything feels vivid and unsettling, but it's better than feeling nothing. You're not on your own, and you never will be." Her grasp on his hair grew more insistent. "Get that sorted in your skull and keep it there."  
"I don't deserve this love."  
"Bollocks. This from the man who jumped off a building to save his friends. The same man who dropped everything the day I fainted on the Tube. The same man who punched Mycroft when John was in Intensive Care. Do I need to go on?"  
"No." He took in a ragged breath. “Love is neither something earned nor deserved. If it's not freely given, it's not worth having." Her thumb brushed the curve of his cheek.  
"You are loved, for the good and the bad. That will not change. Understood?"  
"Understood." She could feel the thought moving through his brain. "That's what frightens me."  
"Sweetheart, that's how we all feel."


	7. Increasingly Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Some people are worth waiting for."  
> "Really?"  
> "Completely, Buttercup."
> 
> She shot him a sharp look. "Comparing me to a farm girl will not win you any favours, Wesley."  
> Martin and Anthea grab at a sliver of near-normality, resulting in fluff and filmic references  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 221bjen continues to be the wondrous cherub who has the unenviable task of deciphering my text once Dragon has finished mangling my Britishisms. Go read her stuff.
> 
> \---

The first thing Anthea saw were the guard rails of the hospital bed and the pale green wall beyond them. The discreet beep of the monitoring equipment still attached to Martin punctuated the silence with calming regularity. She cautiously turned over, determined not to wake him, and thought she had succeeded until his hand grasped hers. "You're worth waking up for."  
Anthea levered herself onto one elbow. "Likewise." The clock blinked away another minute. Half past three. "How're you doing?"  
"Head feels like it's trying to declare independence. Feeling particularly bruised elsewhere. Guess I'm still somewhat of a mess."  
She took a moment to consider him. "Not so bad. Your hair is a bit lopsided, and while the dressing lends you a rakish air, I'll prefer it gone." She stroked the unbruised side of his face fondly. "Those remarkable cheekbones are still very much in place."  
His grin was a slow and cautious affair. "Never realised they held such merit. Always thought they added a horse-like quality to my appearance."  
"Neigh. Not from above the waist, anyway.”  
"Down,girl." His lips found the curve of her ear. "How did you sleep?"  
“I closed my eyes and thought of cavorting sheep after snuggling up to a semi-conscious bloke. Seemed to work."  
"Trust you to be so quick at this hour." His grin evolved into something more earnest. "I'm sorry about all this. It was never my intention to worry you."  
She huffed. "My fault for getting entangled with a fellow agent. It comes with the territory."  
"So, agents, are we?"  
"What else would we call ourselves? Personal pilot/chauffeur/protection officer/ assistant doesn't quite roll off the tongue in the same way. And minion seems a tad trivial."  
He slowly angled his head, the better to kiss her cheek. "Hmm. I’d quite enjoy being considered your official minion."  
"As opposed the unofficial one who kept buying the coffee and taking me on non–dates?"  
"Something like that."  
She traced a hand through his hair. "My biggest regret is that I took so long to twig what you were up to."  
"Soft,slow and steady wins the day."  
She suddenly found it hard to swallow. "My fault entirely. Took me far too long to remember how to trust anyone."  
"I know.” His finger stroked her wrist. “Some people are worth waiting for."  
"Really?"  
"Completely, Buttercup."

She shot him a sharp look. "Comparing me to a farm girl will not win you any favours, Wesley."  
"But it gives me another reason to do this," he murmured, leaning over to kiss her properly.  
Not that he needed one.  
– – –  
A discreet knock on the other side of the door woke one but not the other. "Come in,” he whispered.  
Delores, smiling warmly from the doorway. "My, you're looking better. All pinked up and increasingly human. Just as well, seeing as Doctor wants to see you shortly, and I understand you could have visitors later."  
Martin smiled. "No prizes for guessing who they’ll be. How's the boss?"  
She drew a breath. "Slowly and carefully improving from what I understand, but it'll be a while before he's up for much."  
He glanced around, looking for something approaching a dressing gown. "Am I allowed to get up? I could do with paying a visit."  
Delores reached into a cupboard and tossed him a bundle of towelling. "That'll cover you. Not that you've got anything to be ashamed of."  
He tried not to blush - and failed. "Perhaps not, but I prefer a more gentlemanly appearance when in public and in reasonable control of my faculties."  
"As you wish. Think you could eat something light in a while?"  
"Perhaps. It seems rather a long time since my last meal. Cheers."  
"No problem, sweetie. I'll leave you both to get up. We're expecting a ward round in half an hour. Let me unplug you from the mains…”  
“Much appreciated.”She detached his drips from the cannula in his hand and removed the pulse monitor. “Any wobbles and you ring the bell. Immediately. Understood?”  
“Yes ma’am.And thank you.”  
He waited until she had left the room before easing himself out of bed and wrapping the dressing gown around him. He pulled the blankets up back around Anthea’s shoulders. He’d have left her there all day if he could.  
But when he returned, she was awake. He gave her a rueful look. "I didn't mean to disturb you."  
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Bed felt a bit empty. Besides, did I hear mention of breakfast?"  
"You did, but I'd prefer to shower first. Might need some help keep my dressings dry."  
"There's a wonderful invention called the shower cap. I believe there may be one in the bathroom."  
"And while the wonders of modern technology will never cease to amaze me, I'd still appreciate your assistance. Besides, the ward round starts shortly. Could be a while before I'm able to enjoy your company in private again…"  
"Well, when you put it like that... How long have we got?"  
“Twenty five minutes, tops, before the doctors troop in.”  
“Better get a move on, then. “  
“As you wish…”


	8. Surviving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John’s gaze locked with Sherlock’s. OK?
> 
> A fine-boned hand wavered in mid air. A split-second smile appeared. Surviving.
> 
> That would have to do for now.  
> \---  
> Emotional shockwaves continue to rumble through Baker Street.

Chapter 8 - Surviving

**Progress Report? JW**

**MC conscious but resting. Concussion still causing minor concern. Doctors considering weaning MH from ventilation later today. AM.**

**How are you doing? JW**

**Upright and breathing. Someone has to. AM**

**Remember to ask for help when you need it. When can we visit? JW**

**No fixed times. Come when ready. How are you doing? AM**

**Fragile. AR holding up, SH less so. Will check on MR shortly. JW**

**Thank you. AM**

– – –

Sherlock was still out cold when John reappeared with breakfast. Agnes shifted slightly as he left the tray on the side. "News?" John nodded.

_Phone_ , he mouthed.

**Some promising reports from Northolt. MC doing better than MH. JW**

**So when do we go? AR**

**A little later. Want to check up on your mum shortly. JW**

**I'll come with you. AR**

**Don't feel that you have to. JW**

**I need to try talking to her. AR**

**Let's wake up our consulting idiot. JW**

 

Sherlock looked suspiciously at both of them. "What's happened?"

John put the phone to one side. "Nothing to be alarmed over, I swear. Food first."

"Bribery."

"An appropriate incentive, actually. Now sit up a bit, both of you." He handed the plate to Agnes. She took a piece of honey-drenched toast and nibbled cautiously at it. Sherlock grabbed his and demolished it in three bites. He eyed the remaining slice on the plate, daring her to complain. She arched an eyebrow.

"You – weren't – going to – touch – it," was his defence between mouthfuls.

She ruffled a  sticky hands through his hair in revenge. "About time you started eating properly."

"Food slows me down."

John passed over a mug. "As do blackouts, Sherlock, so enough of that, thank you. Drink that down. You're dehydrated."

"Humph." But he found the tea warm, sweet and comforting, before exchanging the mug for his phone.  "Why couldn't you use yours?"

John smirks. "Yours was closer-  I was responding to Anthea's text."

"Typical.”

 

**Apologies** **for** **outburst earlier. MH may be improving.** **SH**

**Understood. No** **problem. Somewhat fraught here too. Keep us informed?** **GL**

 

A quiet knock on the flat door caused John to scramble to his feet, but it opened before he could reach it.

"Just me." Mrs Hudson's kitten heels clattered in the hallway before they stopped outside the bedroom door. "May I come in?"

"Sure," replied John.

The door edged open. Sherlock remained tucked up against Agnes.

"Oh."

The smile Sherlock gave her was genuine. "Yes?"

"I just came to say that Marianne is awake and asking for you."

Agnes tried not to sigh. "I’ll be down in a while. Thanks"

"Not a problem, dear. See you when you’re ready."

John collected up the mugs and plate. "Want some backup?"

"Please."

"Am I going in a professional or personal capacity?"

"I think you'll find that both will be required," said Sherlock. He shucked off the duvet and headed for the bathroom.

 

It was hard for John not to view Marianne as yet another of his patients. Her composure was eggshell-thin, ready to fracture at the slightest threat.

Agnes hugged her with the awkward compassion of a stranger. Marianne felt the stiffness in her limbs and failed to ignore it. They sat on the small sofa, three distinct inches apart. It might as well have been an ocean.

 

John took one of the remaining chairs. Mrs Hudson kept to the kitchen.

"How are you doing, Marianne?"

She shrugged before finding the words.” Functioning." Her face was washed out, her eyes distant. "Shellshocked, if that’s an appropriate term to use."

John's half smile was filled with professional sympathy, but his eyes darted towards Agnes. She was biting her lip, as though the physical pain could prevent her from adding her own opinion at first.

"At least you know who you are. I have no such security."

Marianne flinched at her words, but said nothing. She turned to John. "Wh- what will happen now? To the remains, I mean?" No name given, no name required.

 

John's thoughts raced. _Best to be honest_. "The, er, remains are currently being held by the police while due process takes place. Once they have been released, it’ll be entirely down to you." He glanced between the pair of them. "Take however long you need. There is no rush."

 

"Good," spat Agnes. "Don't expect me to be there. He barely deserves being chucked in a fire."

"Agnes…" Marianne pleaded. "He was my husband, and your father, in all ways  but one –"

"… whose action put us all in danger..." Her eyes felt hot and acid-brimmed. "Don’t think of  including me in any of your hypocritical rituals for that psychopathic bastard." John started out his chair then stopped. _This was not his fight._

Marianne's hand reached out. Agnes sprang back as if stung. "Leave me be," she hissed. "I'd rather spend my time with those who need me, instead of fussing over his carcass."

Agnes fled. Marianne made to go after her, but John held out his hand. "With respect, I think it's best you stay here. Give her time, if you can. So little makes sense to anyone at the moment."

She tried to swallow the lump in her throat. "She hates me."

John shook his head."It's easier to be angry than to admit to being scared. Sherlock's hardly any better at the moment."

"But what can I do?" She searched John’s face as though it held the answer.

"Let the dust settle. No one is expecting a snap decision."

"Not even Agnes?"

"Particularly not Agnes. We all need to focus on getting through the next few days. I've heard from the hospital that Martin Crieff is making good progress, and I understand that Mycroft is in as stable a condition as is possible at the moment."

"Will I be able to see him?"

"I should think so, perhaps once Sherlock's been."

"Of course.” She took a deep, ragged breath. "Now go after my daughter. I know you have her best interests at heart. As do I, even if she can't see it yet."

"I know. She will come round, I'm sure." But that time frame stretched into the foreseeable, and they both knew it.

– – –

Sherlock sat on the third step outside 221A. Agnes stormed out in a whirl of confusion. "Eavesdropping now, are we?" she snapped.

He reached out and guided her down next to him. She crumpled against his warmth. "Half the street will have heard you." Sherlock's bald honesty served its purpose and he tears soaked straight through his shirt. He pulled her into a fierce hug, as though he had never derided such displays of affection. Seeing Agnes like this ripped holes in him that he had forgotten existed.

Finally she ran out of tears and sagged against him.

"Come on now. Upstairs." She followed, scared of what might happen to her if she released his hand. She glanced over her shoulder towards Mrs Hudson's door. "I need John," came out somewhat plaintively.

"He'll be with us soon." They entered the flat, leaving the door ajar. "Bed or sofa?" he asked. When she didn't express a preference, they returned to the bedroom. He toed off his shoes, then knelt at her feet to loosen her boots.

The flat door closed with a click. John was there in the doorway, soft-eyed but oddly wary. Agnes caught his gaze. "How is she?"

"About as lost as confused as we all are," he replied. He came to sit next to her on the bed.

"Probably more so." Sherlock's voice rumbled behind her.

"I didn't mean to be so hurtful."

John stroked her hair. "It's going to take some time." He looked over at Sherlock. “Perhaps space between you would be good. If that means that you don't talk for a while, so be it. Try texting. Or one of us could be the messenger. Would that help?" She nodded.

Sherlock shivered. The damp  front of his shirt was cold and clammy against his skin. John frowned. "Cold?" Sherlock blinked. "Need you to be wearing something warmer than wet cotton." He thought for a moment then disappeared upstairs. "Get that shirt off," he called from the stairs, "I'll find you something warmer."

Sherlock started to loosen the buttons with a struggle. Agnes took over when his hands shook. She eased the fabric from his shoulders. He shivered again, but then John was behind him, pushing his arms into a shirt he'd never seen before. Soft grey flannel with corduroy cuffs and simple wooden buttons. "Hold out your hands," he commanded.

Sherlock's brain kicked into gear. "One of Harry's drunken presents," he began, as John fastened the cuffs. "Four inches too long in the arms, and similarly proportioned elsewhere. The fibre content is surprisingly bearable. Thank you."

Agnes smoothed the fabric down the length of his spine. "Anytime." He leaned back into her touch.

\---

She woke a couple of hours later, caged between John and Sherlock under a blanket. Clearly it was her turn to be the focus of care and comfort. But is couldn’t stop her brain spiralling out of control.

 

The knowledge that Mycroft could be anything other than immortal terrified her. He’d always been there to watch over her, through the good and the bad. Far more of a father than Reynard had ever been. And then yesterday he’d walked knowingly into danger as a willing sacrifice, the better to shield them from the flashpoint of Reynard’s fury.

 

She remembered waking up in hospital to find herself sisterless, and hoped Sherlock would be saved from the scything grief for a dead sibling. _Not now, not yet. Not like this. Please_.

 

Sherlock read her thoughts. “We’ve not buried him yet,” he rumbled into her hair. “Enough.” His fingers stroked a pattern into her back. John’s lips pressed undemanding kisses into her neck. She nestled further into their arms and closed her eyes again.

John’s gaze locked with Sherlock’s. _OK?_

A fine-boned hand wavered in mid air. A split-second smile appeared. _Surviving_.

That would have to do for now.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The angst returns, but it's always darkest before the dawn...  
> I remain ceaselessly grateful for the friends I've met via this fandom - conductors of light all, to the very last soul.


	9. Then, not now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every mind palace has its dark corners. Mycroft's is no different.  
> As his body fights off the Baskerville toxin, Mycroft finds himself in familiar and fearful territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for medical imagery and past illness. This was a tough chapter to write.

Movement. The sensation of bright lights flickering briefly across his consciousness. A tube pushed down his nose.  Eyes held forcibly closed by medical tape. The haze of sedation which tamped down his thinking.

The voices were back. He could almost recognise the shape of the sounds, if not their meaning.He tried to shift his lips into speech  _F-f-f-f-o-r-r_ as the mask descended, but then ll of his words were lost.

\---

There were bright lights, and then there were none. Cramps crawled up his limbs. Pain paralysed him. The blur of faces, all strange, spouting a language he didn’t recognise. They moved him with the controlled speed of panic to somewhere smaller, ever more artificial. Strong hands stilled him. Smaller ones fitted a syringe into his cannula.

Ice filled his veins. His eyes slid closed on cue. At least the pain was fading…

\--

_He was strapped into a giant’s bed steeped in sterility and fear. Childish cartoons littered the walls at odd angles, as though to blunt the edge of institutional pastels. His arms hurt, as did the his head. Vomit spilled onto the chessboard floor. Clumps of hair fluttered from his head like lost feathers._

_The nausea continued even when he knew his stomach held nothing more than trails of acid. Then Mummy was there, one hand on his arm, one on the bloom of her stomach. Father argued with the unknown in the corridor, hands flailing, glasses seeming to flash sparks from the fluorescent strip lights. Concern, grief and sorrow dripped from everyone that passed his window._

_-_

_A pair of  toddler feet skidded and danced over the linoleum. He caught a glimpse of auburn curls which imprisoned the light, and bright, wide, unknowing eyes. Questioning hands grabbed at the overhanging blanket, and hauled an excitted body onto the bed. “VrOOm, vrOOm Mikey! Come play?” Chubby fingers pulled at the IV tubes. Mycroft writhed and struggled to swallow the scream in his throat._

_-_

_Dark, sleepless weeks in an elsewhere, watching other children disappear one by one behind hungry screens,  which retreated hours later to reveal another empty bed. Once, they advanced on him, only to disappear the next day. Remission, the giants said._

_-_

_This seemed like home, but not as he had most recently left it. The hall was an expanse of Laura Ashley florals instead of Osborne and Little stripes. A florid blue carpet flowed upstairs across the half-familiar hall._

_Ahh. Clearly then, not now,  made more obvious by the pathetic sight of a pale grey case abandoned in the lea of the stairs._

_He stood, framed by the porch arch, unnerved by the silence. This house was never meant to be so empty. Not with a mother attempting to welcome a child freshly back from hospital yet again.But where was the pushchair and the toddler clutter?  Even in a house  as professionally kempt as this, there was always something left behind. There had to be ._

_He wanted to run through the house and pillage every cupboard, even the attic with its cobwebbed curtains.  He wished Sherlock was here, his tiny bloodhound of a brother. Something precious was lost, and it was down to him to find it. He stood absolutely, perfectly still, isolating all the noises around him. Something was was moving on the floor above. Floorboards creaked awkwardly above his head, betraying the steps of small, stumbling feet._

_Silently, cautiously, stealthily, he headed upstairs in search of answers._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All will be well, eventually, I promise...


	10. Warglesnarks from the Regal Lunatic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can look after myself."
> 
> ".... You head off for days at a time at all hours, and I barely get more than a text message and an airport souvenir. I understand that your work is everything to you, but there are limits. I live in fear of one day having to sit Arthur down to explain that you've been seriously hurt or even killed. It would absolutely destroy him." _And_ _me_.
> 
> "So what would you have me do? Ask the bad guys to shoot with blanks?"
> 
> "Of course not. But you could save the heroics for someone else, you utter berk."
> 
> "I'll consider it." 
> 
> \---  
> Martin has visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Covertly beta read by 221bjen at the speed of sound.

"This is your ten minute call, dear." Delores bustled into the room, a large brown paper carrier dangling from one hand. "Someone calling themselves Skygod was most insistent that I bought this in."

Martin rolled his eyes. "That would be Douglas. Is he still here?""Oh no, darlin'. He brought it over in the small hours, when you were up all tucked up and asleep. Looks like fresh stuff for both of you." She put the bag on the bed next to Martin before fishing something out. "And who is this cute little fella? Looks like he's been loved to death."

His voice softened. "LeBear Polar! Douglas must've gone over to see my landlady to give her the news." He groaned when he realised the consequences. "Oh god. Arthur."

Anthea peered round the bathroom door, draped in a towel. "Why the proclamation? I thought you said Arthur was a force for good …"

"Oh he is," replied Martin. But he is also a six-foot plus hurricane of goodwill and enthusiasm, minus the benefit of forethought, because thinking isn't something that he does very well."

"Known him long?" asked Delores.

"Twenty years. Think we managed to survive school as a joint act of ludicrous defiance.What he lacks in brains, he makes up with heart."

Delores grinned. "Sounds adorable."

Anthea pulled out a small bundle from the carrier and retreated into the bathroom to change.

"He's all that, with the volume turned up to eleven. And then there's Carolyn."

"Don't you mean the Dragon Queen?" Anthea added from behind the door.

"I'm surprised I've been spared a visitation this long."

"She was probably waiting until you were sufficiently awake to listen to a round telling off the getting hurt again." Anthea emerged, as immaculately smart as ever. _Battledress_ , thought Martin, with softer hair and a touch of exhaustion under the eyes. She caught his appraising gaze and returned it. "Well, will I do?"

Delores grinned. "Very stylish and impressively swift, too. I'll leave you to it now, but you'll have company very soon. Drop past  our station later, Anthea. There should be some muffins going spare."

Martin cocked an eyebrow. "And what of your poor beleaguered patient? Do I get fed soon as well?"

"Jus' as soon as they stop the prodding and poking and the questions, don't you fret. Bye for now."

"See you later. And, thank you." Martin's voice softened.

"All in a day's work, sweetheart." The door swung shut behind her.

Now they were alone, Martin beckoned Anthea closer to the bed. "Heaven help anyone who crosses you today." He pulled at her sleeve when she came within reach. "Equal parts ferocity and gorgeousness." She relaxed briefly into his touch as he kissed his favourite spot above her left eyebrow.

The knock at the door pulled them apart reluctantly. Anthea smoothed down her suit. "Need to head upstairs. Behave yourself."

"And, what if I don't…?"

Anthea's disapproval was eggshell–thin. "I'm sure I'll think of a suitable punishment."

Martin's smile was positively filthy. "Promises, promises…"

Her last glance at Martin and the hastily rearranged blankets over his groin played in a happy loop as she went up to Mycroft's room. She considered praying to the non-existent deity that this positive mood would continue.

– – –

"SK-II-PPP!"

The human hurricane could be heard long before he came into view. Martin tried not to wince at the decibels released as he bounded into the room.

The grin on his face could have powered half of London, even when Caroline had a devoted yet grim grip on the hood of his duffle coat. "Light of my life, turn the volume down. We can all hear you perfectly."

"Oops. Sorry, Mum." He tiptoed to the bedside, hands outstretched. For one moment Martin feared that he would be hugged out of existence until Arthur fitted thumbs behind ears and waggled his fingers in the air. "Warglesnarks!"

Martin leaned forward and gently pinched Arthur's nose. "The same to you, O High Regal Lunatic." He caught a glance of Carolyn's exasperated face, and quickly calmed down. "Wonderful to see you both."

She took a seat on one side of the bed, and motioned Arthur to take the other one. "I hope they pay you danger money."

Martin shrugged. "Something like that. But there's no major damage. I should be out of here in the next day or so."

Arthur brightened at the thought. "Does that mean you're coming back to Fitton Road? The house has been too quiet without you."

Martin saw the hope in his eyes and felt dreadful. "Not just yet, I'm afraid, Arthur. They're going to need me to stay at Mr. Holmes's house, because I'll still have work to do."

"But that's not fair. You got hurt, and they're not giving you time to get better." Arthur turned to Carolyn. "Even soldiers get holidays, especially when they get duffed up." Carolyn's hand was on Arthur's sleeve./p>

"He does have a point, Martin.You're not Captain Indestructible. Why won't they let you come home with us?"

Martin sighed. "I’ll be needed for the investigation. That's all I'm able to say. Mr. Holmes is still very, very ill. His work needs to continue and I'm part of that."

"Is this to catch the people who hurt you?" asked Arthur, suddenly serious and grown up.

"That won't be necessary."

"I'm glad they're dead. Were you frightened, when it happened?" Carolyn poked Arthur sharply. "Ow. Mum, what was that for?"

"Getting close to a code red, Arthur. Don't ask questions like that."

"Carolyn, it's all right. If I'm honest, Arthur, everything happened so fast. I didn't really have time to feel scared."

Arthur remained dubious. "Are you sure?"

"Completely. Now, if you go to the nurses’ station, I think you'll find they'll appreciate your superior tea-making skills. They have been absolutely brilliant at looking after me, but I'm sure they'd love someone else thinking of them for a while.”

"This is since just to get me out of here so you can talk seriously to Mum, is it?"

A tiny piece of Martin felt wretched at lying to him. "Not at all. The sooner you go, the sooner you'll be back."

"If you're absolutely sure…"

He smiled reassuringly. "Utterly. See you in a bit."

Arthur sprang to his feet, and bowed. Martin acknowledged him with a somewhat regal wave of his hand.

“Can I bring some for you both as well? Once I’ve gone round the care team?”

Carolyn’s smile was positively beatific. “That would be lovely. Now off you go, my wondrous boy.” He strode out of the room, humming his own variation of the Superman theme.

She watched him go, then turned back to the bed. “He really misses you. Last night really shook us both up, especially as that Mr. Richardson didn't reach us until the unmentionable hours. And when he mentioned Talisker Day,..." Carolyn faltered briefly. "...I really thought we'd lost you."

"It would take more than that, Carolyn. I can look after myself."

"Really? You head off for days at a time at all hours, and I barely get more than a text message and an airport souvenir. I understand that your work is everything to you, but there are limits. I live in fear of one day having to sit Arthur down to explain that you've been seriously hurt or even killed. It would absolutely destroy him." _And_ _me_.

"So what would you have me do? Ask the bad guys to shoot with blanks?"

"Of course not. But you could save the heroics for someone else, you utter berk."

"I'll consider it." Carolyn recognised his words for the compromise they were.

"Now tell me more about this Richardson character. Do he often do night calls.....?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional thanks go to Entropic Cascade this week for her masterful Arthur wrangling.


	11. We only tease the ones we love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day of arrivals and departures, as life or something like it continues at RAF Northolt.

The journey to Northolt was wrapped in silence and internal distance which allowed for a fragile truce between Marianne and Agnes.  

They stood in a huddle in the corridor outside Mycroft's room, physically sweltering, emotionally frozen, until Dr Porter took pity on their indecision and beckoned them in

"Could I sit with him?" asked Marianne.  
Dr Porter nodded. "He’s under sedation, mostly as a means of controlling some of the seizures he’s been having, but he may able to sense your presence."  
Marianne turned to face Sherlock and Agnes. "Would you mind?"  
"Take what time you need." Sherlock's voice rumbled softly through her. "Better you than me. I'd only antagonise him by breathing too loudly."  
"Liar." A truth wrapped in fondness. Marianne leaned up and kissed his cheek, whispering in his ear before she pulled up a chair at the bedside.  
"What did she say?" asked Agnes.  
"We only tease the ones we love."  
\---  
Anthea watched the door of Mycroft’s room from a distance, phone in hand.  
John appeared. "He's doing as well as we could expect. How about you?"  
"Functioning on a cellular level. Martin’s just endured a visitation from his landlady and her son, so I’m awaiting further instructions."  
He knew that look, having seen a louder, cruder version on squaddies’ faces often enough. Inaction and uncertainty were worse than than combat. "Right. Stand down. Get back downstairs and take a break. I’ll check with Martin's care team to ensure you comply. Doctor's orders." He pressed the lift button.  
"Not on your ward."  
John was not impressed. "Doctors are rarely off duty, just like PAs. Get your head down before you fall down." His determination to care was almost endearing.  
"No getting around you, is there?"  
"Nope." He smiled. "How'd you think I manage to live with the consulting idiot? A pushover would last five minutes in that flat." He patted her arm. "Shoo."  
"Not a dog, you know," she grumbled.  
"No - more like a tiger." Her glance was briefly but playfully murderous.  
"Careful now. I've mauled people for less."  
The lift arrived and opened. "Don’t I know. Now off you go. I'll be in touch when there's more news. Promise."  
"See that you do, Dr Watson."  
\---  
Martin woke as Anthea slipped back into the room. "News?"  
"Momentarily lucid, but back under significant sedation, ventilated and stabilised. The whole gang’s up there." She leaned over and kissed him. His arms pulled her onto the bed.  
"You taste of cake,” he accused, deepening the kiss.  
"From the nurses’ station, procured for me by Dr Porter. How was the visitation?"  
Martin groaned. “Exhausting. Arthur commandeered the tea trolley while Carolyn gave me earache about landing in another hospital bed.”  
"That’s only because she worries about you. So what happens next?"  
"Next?"  
"When you get released back into the wild." He felt the concern running under the joke and held her tighter.  
"Raww-r..." He felt her stiffen, and softened his voice. "Anth, have I messed up? This is all new to me."  
She cast him a sideways glance. "Not how it appears."  
A blush crept across his face. "There's a compliment trying to get out of that somewhere." He brushed the hair off her shoulder and she leaned into the touch, contemplative and silent. "This isn't about possession or control..." he continued, looking up into her eyes, “... but It’s been so long since anyone’s taken me even remotely seriously in this context. I mean, prior to being recruited by the Dark Lord, what kind of prospect was a badly-dressed ginger taxi-driving pilot wannabe living in his on-off boss's back bedroom? Hardly a prize catch in anyone's books."  
She framed his face with her hand. “All it took was a change in fortune and some self belief. You’re much stronger than you know.”  
“Likewise. But I bollocksed every exam I took until I was nineteen, and couldn't hold a non-mechanical conversation with anyone for years. Always felt I was only thirty seconds away from social disaster."  
“But it taught you to watch, listen and move with consideration for others. There’s a lot to be said for being a quiet man. Makes you stand out amongst the noisemakers.”  
“Perhaps. But let’s take things slowly. I’ll be coming back to Highgate with you, at least until Mycroft deigns to rejoin us.”  
“Good. I seem to sleep better next to you.”  
“And here’s the perfect opportunity. Not expecting any intruders until the shift change.Come join me.”  
“Do I look that knackered?”  
He regarded her fondly. “If I’m honest, yes. And I’m only relaying orders.”  
Anthea rolled her eyes. “John Watson gets everywhere.”  
Martin smirked.“Well, not quite. Come on. Plenty room here…”  
\---  
MH showing some repeated signs of brief lucidity. Attempted to speak briefly. MRI suggested some signs of minor brain damage. SH  
Thanks for update. Need anything? GL  
Cold cases? SH  
I'll see what I do. Mol sends her love.GL  
Very kind of her. Ta. JW  
\---  
John, tell the CI to check his inbox. Got a couple of things which might keep him occupied. GL  
CI? SH  
Are you two joined at the phone now as well?What happened to yours? GL  
Answering a question with another question does not equal an answer.John’s was closer. What is CI?SH  
Consulting Idiot.Meant as a term of endearment. Sorry. GL.  
For the use or the thought? SH.  
Possibly both, but perhaps not. GL.  
Predictable. Expect to hear shortly regarding cases. SH.  
That quick? GL.  
Not much else to do here. AR asleep. MR with MH. A wrapped around MC downstairs. SH  
Jealous? GL.  
Hardly. Thirsty. J talking to doctors. Tedium. SH.  
\---  
Just been informed that MSH is officially the senior liaison regarding wider ramifications of the Reynard case as well as deflecting media attention from MH. She will be in contact soon.GL  
Interesting. Didn’t think they allowed pensioners back on the force. SH  
A voluntary choice, from what I understand. Felt obligated due to her long working relationship with MH’s office. Problem? GL  
Not as far as I can see at the moment. SH  
But? GL  
Oh, nothing remarkable. Thank you for the e-files. SH  
– – –  
"Very good, Martin. I believe that you're fit for discharge. Your medications are here." Delores handed him a bag. "Your GP has been emailed regarding your injuries. You are to do nothing strenuous in the slightest for the next five days. Provided that you pass a sight test after that, you'll be considered to be fit to drive." She turned to Anthea. "Look after this one. He's a bit of a rarity."  
Anthea frowned. "What do you mean?"  
"AB Rhesus Neg," she replied.  
_Just like the Dark Lord. Curious_. "I’d prefer if he’d keep his claret on the inside from now on."  
Martin glared at them. "Oi. Still here, you know. Ears are fully functioning."  
"And now they're very, very pink,” replied Anthea. “Come on, GERT–I’s waiting."  
"Who's driving her?"  
"Either me or Douglas. Who would you prefer?"  
“You. He's too hard on the gears."  
"And I thought you preferred a firm hand..." Martin suddenly found the floor intensely fascinating.  
Delores smirked. "And that’s my cue to exit. Look after each other."  
"We will," replied Martin. "Thank you."  
\---  
MC discharged but signed off from active duty for the foreseeable. Returning with me to Highgate. Awaiting further orders. AM.  
Get him settled in. Will meet with you later. MSH.  
Understood. AM  
\---  
Am going back to Baker Street with Agnes. MR staying at the bedside. Where the hell are you? JW  
Revisiting old territory. Without chemical assistance, I hasten to add. Back later. SH  
Keep your bloody phone on and your head down. That’s an order. JW  
Yes, Captain. SH

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A heartfelt thanks to everyone who is reading, commenting and/or leaving kudos on this, but most especially to 221bjen, who deserves all the prizes for responding to some of my more outlandish plot wibbles. Every writer should have someone like her...


	12. We Princes Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea turned over the Christmas picture and stared at it with increased focus. "Why must you dig through private family matters? On whose authority are you doing this?"
> 
> A hidden story comes to light in Mycroft's library.

He was aware that they had stopped, and that a neatly gloved hand  was stroking the side of his face.

“Come on sleepy,we're here.”  

Martin pushed into the touch. ”Comfortable. Can I stay here ?”

Anthea unclipped his seatbelt in response. ”Sorry. Not on the itinerary. Got something far nicer for you upstairs.”

A dozy grin lit up his face. ”And will you be joining me?”

She kissed the curve of his cheek. “Later, but I’ve got a few things to do first. Come on, let’s be having you.”

“And there’s an offer I couldn’t refuse. “ He angled his head so that their mouths met. She stopped for a moment to take in his kiss, then regretfully slid out of the driving seat. Martin watched her approach the front door and deactivate its security panel.  _ Damn _ . She had her serious face on again. He flexed his shoulders and opened the car door. A wave of dizziness hit him. When had being independently upright become such a challenge? He leaned on the passenger door, waiting for the nausea to pass. No. It wasn’t that. His stomach was fine, if a little empty. If only his head would comply. But then Anthea was back, looping an arm around his waist. 

“Easy does it. Faceplanting in the gravel is not a good look.OK?”

“I’m cold. And stiff. ” He heard her amused huff. “And not in a good way. Where’s that comfortable surface you promised me?”

“Not far. Across the hall and up off the first landing.” They paused just inside the hall while she slammed the door closed with a deft kick. “I’m expecting Spencer-Harris to drop past shortly. Seems she’s volunteered herself as liaison while the Dark Lord improves. We’re going to need her to keep the press at bay, at  least in the short term.“

“Not sure about her,” admitted Martin as they reached the outer door of Anthea’s rooms. “Can’t explain why.”

“Then don’t.” An edge of worry had crept into her voice. “If you get concerned, we can always talk to  Greg Lestrade. I’d trust him with anything other than my car keys. Have you seen the way he parks?”

Martin winced at the thought. “God only knows how he passed the driving course.“

“Best not to ask. “ Her pocket trilled discreetly. “OK. Company’s arrived. When I come back, I’d like to see you settled in and preferably horizontal.”

“Yes boss. But what if I’m not?”

She paused in the doorway, a devious grin on her face. “Oh, I’ll think of something. ..”

\---

Spencer-Harris sat opposite Anthea in Mycroft’s library. She sipped at her tea, noting the unexpected wrinkles in Anthea’s suit. “How is Mr. Crieff?” 

“Continuing to recover, Ma’am. I’ll pass on your best wishes. Now what would you like me to do?”

“Most considerate of you.” Spencer-Harris produced a folder bound with legal ribbons. “This was lodged with my office last week, on the strict instructions that it was only to be opened in the event of incapacitation. Clearly Mycroft had an inkling of how recent events might pan out. He said nothing about the contents, other than it pertained to a family issue of some delicacy.”

Anthea watched in utter silence as Spencer-Harris untangled the ribbons with practiced fingers and pulled out a small blue envelope, tucked closed. Two photographs fell out with the flick of a finger. The first was of a couple with a newborn, the colours washed out to greying pastels. The infant’s eyes were closed, face screwed up in a silent howl. The suggestion of copper hair appeared above the tightly wrapped blanket. Anthea did not recognise the woman, but there was no mistaking the man. Cheekbones, dark curly hair and a strong, sharp nose. Sigerson Holmes, in the prime of his life. Anthea turned the picture over.

 

**_Darling Fordie - Twelve hours old_ **

**_27/2/1978_ **

 

Spencer Harris handed her the second photograph. A formal portrait this time; a Christmas image, going by the garish range of jumpers on display. A nine-year-old with intelligent eyes and stubbly auburn hair. A two-year-old, beginning to show a similar spark as his elder brother, matched with a shade of mischief. And the baby, taking centre stage; propped up and supported by their hands, giggling under tufts of copper bright hair.

 

The same confident script identified them on the back:

 

**_15 /12/1978_ **

**_We Princes Three - Mikey, Will, Fordie_ ** .

 

They stared at the inscription.  _ Fordie _ ?

Spencer-Harris spoke first. "In all the years that I’ve known Mycroft, he never once suggested that he was one of three."

"What proof did we have?" Anthea turned over the Christmas picture and stared at it with increased focus. "And why must you dig through private family matters? On whose authority are you doing this?"

Footsteps distracted them both. Anthea became aware of a presence behind her. "Your loyalty to my brother is commendable, even if he would be less than impressed with your need to question the chain of command." Sherlock took the seat next to hers. "Shall we continue?"

Anthea nodded, caught between a sense of vindication and a growing unease. "As you wish."

Spencer-Harris looked across at him. "How is he doing?"   
Sherlock's chin jutted upwards. "Still allowing the machines to do far too much heavy lifting, but the medical team appears to be relatively content with his condition." He paused, as if hunting the most appropriate phrase. "Your consideration is appreciated, Ms. Milson.”

"What can you remember about Fordie?" asked Anthea, deliberately keeping her voice soft.

To her surprise, Sherlock responded immediately. "Very little, to the point I had thought for a long time that I had invented him. I was two when he was born. All seemed well until just after his first Christmas. My parents’ marriage was fatally strained under the care of a young family, the eldest of whom had spent several years being treated for leukemia.

“Mycroft’s first period of remission lasted less than a year. I was four, just about to start school when everything turned upside down. Father disappeared, never to return. We moved into a poky flat near Russell Square for several months.  It  appears quite possible that my mother suffered a depressive relapse during this period, although I was too young to absorb the details at the time. When we finally came home, several months later, Fordie disappeared, almost in the same way that Father had done, as he was never mentioned again."  
  
"What do you think happened?" Spencer-Harris asked, in the same calm voice she clearly used for talking to the simpleminded.

 

Sherlock had to bite back a retort.  
  
"It should be apparent, even to you, that he was fostered via a private temporary arrangement that clearly became a permanent arrangement."  
  
Spencer-Harris frowned. "But Mycroft must have been old enough to understand at least part of what was happening. Why did he never mention him?"  
  
"Guilt," suggested Anthea. "He may have been old enough to understand, but he may also have felt that he was entirely responsible for the dissolution of his family, rightly or wrongly."  
  
Sherlock's gaze hardened. "I had always thought your degree was in languages, not psychology."  
  
Anthea continued, undeterred. "You're not the only one who can observe and deduce. I monitor his diary as a matter of course. He began lunching regularly with Sir Edgar Milverton, Emeritus Professor of Paedriatric Haematology, about a year ago, until his death last month while we were in Geneva. Mycroft missed the funeral, but visited Lady Milverton as soon as practicable on our return. He took the train, as he wished to be entirely private. The following day, he consciously did nothing out of the ordinary, other than to arrange for a number of significant donations to a number of children’s medical charities.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Too little, too late, as ever. Throwing money at the problem was never going to bring Fordie back.”

“Perhaps not.” Spencer-Harris was in conciliatory form, and Sherlock hated her for its insincerity. “Do you know if Sir Edgar remained Mycroft’s consultant throughout the period he was ill?”

“I have no idea,” he lied. “Look through his medical file. Turn Great Ormond Street upside down until all the consultants fall out. You’ll root out something.”

“I’m sure that such details would be released if the next of kin put in an appropriate request,” replied Anthea. ”Any treatment would be a matter of record, even after thirty-odd years, especially if it involved the transplantation of bone marrow.” She watched Sherlock’s eyes widen by the merest fraction.  _ Excellent. He’d caught the bait. _

He took hold of the Christmas picture and stared at the trio of happy faces. “The first time I failed Mycroft was when they discovered my unsuitability as a sibling donor…” his voice trailed off.

“...perhaps Fordie was a better match. The odds of a sibling match are something like one in four..”

Sherlock glared at Spencer-Harris. “The statistic for which you are grasping is precisely one in four, Inspector. Data does not lie the way that people do.”

She drew back the merest fraction. She took a breath and glanced at the time. Almost ten thirty. “Might I suggest that we revisit this in the morning, with clearer heads?  It will also provide the opportunity to gain access to the records we need.”

“I’m not tired,” declared Sherlock.

Anthea remained calm in the face of his denial.  She turned to Sherlock. “I would appreciate Dr Watson’s assistance tomorrow, if he can be spared.”

He huffed. “Ask him yourself. I’m not his keeper.”

“I will.” 

Spencer-Harris gathered the photos back into the folder and left it in the centre of the table. “I will be back at ten tomorrow, if all things remain as they are.” She stood and nodded at them both. Sherlock ignored her“Goodnight.”

“I’ll see you out, Ma’am.”

\---

Anthea watched the black car snake off before returning to her other visitor, who was shrugging on his coat in the hallway.    
“Richardson will be here shortly to take you back to Baker Street.” Sherlock pulled a face, but stood meekly while she rearranged the collar of his coat. 

“I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself.”

“Just like the elder idiot, then, aren’t you?” He pulled on his gloves as if they’d personally insulted him, but graciously accepted the folder whic Spencer Harris had left behind.

“I don’t trust her.”

“And neither do I, but appearances to the contrary must be maintained, at least for now.” The sweeping glimmer of approaching headlights outside caught their attention. “Go well and safely.”

The hardness of his glance softened. “I intend to. GoodnIght.”

“Goodnight.”

\---

On my way back.Where are you? SH

A is in the bath. Ethel and I are on the sofa, watching crap TV, waiting up for you. JW

Hungry? SH

Starving. Couldn’t face anything earlier. JW

Then expect me at eleven. SH

All OK? JW

To an extent. Will explain all, I promise. SH

 


	13. Somewhere Beyond The Boundary of His Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's mind spirals back and forth as his body heals.

_He stumbled upstairs, his heart beating as loud as the creaking boards beneath his feet. Every door was closed on the upper corridor except where a warm, pale finger of sunlight beckoned him forward._

 

_The study was a sacred place, often visited with trepidation and ceremony. He was never simply invited in – only summoned, to stand on the edge of the patterned rug to await judgement and the inevitable castigation._

 

_This door was always kept closed, waiting for the knock of his trembling hand. Not today. It swayed inwards and back on the lullaby breeze. Seeping dread sank through Mycroft's bones as traitorous curiosity drew him closer before it  swung away from his hands if pulled by a string._

 

_He stood on the designated swirl of the rug, but his father remained a solid, glowering silence in the chair behind a desk, eyes fixed on the peeling paint surrounding the ceiling rose. He did not blink, not even when a wasp settled on the curve one cheek, its antennae flexing…_

 

_A small hand pulled at the back of his shirt. Insistent, desperate, demanding his attention. Sherlock, wreathed in dust and cobwebs, his oddly pale eyes brimming with uncomprehending tears. "Mycie, Daddy silent, Mummy crying, Fordie gone...Why?" His litany continued as he pulled at  Mycroft's hand. "Find Fordie, Mycie...Please find Fordie…"_

**– – –**

**Not then, but not quite now.**

 

The collation of papers into an unremarkable folder, wrapped in legalities, ready to be dispatched by private means after he had left for Suffolk. The approaching storm threatened them all. Fordie had be found and protected for whatever followed, just as Sherlock needed to be.

– – –

His room was  filled with the scent  of a summer garden and the memory of two little girls cartwheeling on their lawn. He sensed the pressure of a hand on the sheets, waiting an inch from his. No words no cries, no pleas to end his semi-sentient state came forth. The notion of comfort waited somewhere beyond the boundary of his skin. He hoped she would still be there when he finally remembered how to open his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All will be well in this universe eventually, I promise.  
> Thank you to everyone who is following this, as well as my other fics.


	14. Twenty past stupid o'clock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...What time is it?"  
> He glanced across. "On the third stroke it will be twenty past stupid o’ clock."  
> "Thought you'd be asleep for longer."  
> "Clearly my muscles thought otherwise." 
> 
> Anthea attempts to put the day behind her. Martin proves to be an affectionate distraction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to 221bjen for digging this out of the shared files pile and proofing it for me. As ever, any mistakes remaining are entirely down to me.

Anthea leaned against the worktop, waiting for the kettle to boil. The house creaked its way to stillness beyond the safety of her flat door. Martin remained her primary concern. While his injuries were nothing in comparison to Mycroft's, his comments about the past added subtle notes to her anxiety. She knew not to push, but his reticence only added to the precarious nature of everything. The events of the last fortnight brought back to her the importance of family, however that was termed. She was only in nominal contact with her own; their attitude to her escape from that disastrous marriage had meant that she preferred as much distance between her and them as humanly possible.

Because family was so much more than ties the biology and paperwork, as had been brought home since starting to work for Mycroft. Sherlock was still a source of disquiet, in spite of the comfort which John and Agnes were clearly weaving around him. She worried for him almost as much as she did for Mycroft. Of course, he was no longer alone and was surrounded by those who cared for him, but the whole business had opened up another crack in the Holmes family, and who knew what further demons would appear as a result?  
The kettle puffed steam at her back. Its click echoed as she made the tea. She sipped it while walking around the flat, making sure that all was secure before setting the alarms and dimming the lights in absolute silence. She undressed in the shadows of the bedroom, comforted by the huffling snort of Martin’s breathing and folded herself in behind him.  
She was on the verge of sleep when he woke, shuddering and gasping with cramp. Her hand was on the light before she was even half awake. "Shh, now," her hand travelling the length of his leg under the duvet. "Calf?"  
He nodded, pushing against the hand as it found his foot.“Don't want to hurt you."  
"You won't." Her confidence astounded him. She maintained the pressure against the arch of his foot pushing the toes upwards. "Just breathe as normally as you can. She turned, catching his gaze. "And no apologising."  
"Yes ma'am." His voice held the lilt of affectionate mockery. The blood was roaring in his ears, and his own gasps were self-deafening. He could feel the subtle pressure of her fingers against the pulse in his ankle. _My clever, gorgeous girl. What did I do to deserve you?_  
The pain eased."Wonderful."  
"Really?"  
"Really." He tugged gently at her free arm. “Fine now. Sor–" She fell back against him, one finger raised in admonishment.  
"No apologies, cloth ears. What time is it?"  
He glanced across. "On the third stroke it will be twenty past stupid o’ clock."  
"Thought you'd be asleep for longer."  
"Clearly my muscles thought otherwise." His fingers traced across her hair. "How much sleep have I robbed you of lately?"  
"I'm refusing to keep track, but it’s nothing that can’t be replenished."  
"Any further news from Northolt? Since you put me to bed, I mean."  
"The overnight care team seem content enough with the latest tests. They might try removing the ventilator at some point tomorrow, to see how his lungs cope."  
"So, better than we might have hoped?"  
"Perhaps. Marianne Reynard is with him tonight."  
"What about Sherlock? Swore I heard his voice earlier."  
Anthea settled herself cautiously against his shoulder. "You did. He was here with Spencer-Harris."  
"And?"  
"I'm not sure how much I can tell you, other than Himself deposited papers with her office on the sly some weeks ago. Seems he had an inkling of encroaching shadows."  
"Sneaky bugger. That's probably how he's lasted this long in Westminster." He breathed in the scent of her. "Don't feel you have to tell me anything else. I’ve spent long enough around this circus in a vertical position to understand how it all works."  
"Thank you." The words swept softly over the rim of his ear. "I'll let you know when I'm allowed to. If I'm honest, this appears to be a family matter."  
"Ahh. Can't say I have much experience of those, at least not conventionally happy and functional ones."  
"Likewise. I'm beginning to think they're a rarity. Like white rhinos or comfortable stilettos."  
"And yet you keep wearing them."  
"I prefer to go about my working day appropriately prepared for whatever comes my way. Besides it never stopped you looking."  
Martin cocked an eyebrow at that. "Are you accusing me of objectification?"  
"I'd prefer to define it as appreciative and respectful observation. Some days, your split-second grin would the brightest thing I'd see. That and your attempt to discreetly adjust certain elements of your anatomy."  
He blushed. "Was there ever anything that you didn’t notice?"  
"Very little that I'd be willing to discuss." She rolled onto her back. He leaned across and kissed her.  
"Perhaps I'll just cuddle it out of you."  
She reached behind and the room was dark again. "Interesting interrogation technique. "  
Martin chuckled. "Might yet prove effective, too."  
“Not just yet it won’t, you daft sod. Remember what you were told - Nothing sufficiently vigorous to raise your heartrate for at least the rest of the week.”  
“Grr.”  
“Shush now, tiger.” She breathed against his neck, enjoying the shiver she caused.”Sleep.”  
“If I must.” He reached across and flicked off the light. “Night night.”  
“Night night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I am back amongst the underemployed. Keeping this updated might just save my sanity.
> 
> New Year's resolutions  
> (a) Pay greater attention to my unfinished fics  
> (b) Keep my notebooks where I can find them so that I don't keep readers hanging on for months.


	15. Lumpen with awkward gratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns to Baker Street at odd with himself and the world. John and Agnes do their best to provide comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those with keen eyes may have noticed that I've altered the tags slightly to better reflect the nature of the relationship between Sherlock, John and Agnes, in order to remove any potential confusion.

Almost home. SH

Good. Ethel is on the verge of sending out a search party. AR

How are you? JW

Functioning. SH

Hungry? AR

Perhaps. SH

"Just as well we saved you some, then." John was framed in the living room doorway as Sherlock secured the latch.

"When did they get here?" he asked.

"Twenty minutes ago. Bit on the tepid side, but nothing a ride in the microwave wouldn't cure."

Sherlock thrust the folder into John's hands. "Reading material." He slung the Belstaff and his scarf onto the hook with a vicious accuracy.

John regarded the file with some concern. It was suspiciously similar to the one which had contained Sherlock's will. "And this is?"

"Family documentation, which I feel you both should read." Sherlock pushed past in search of the promised noodles. He prised open the container with the edge with one finger. "Mm. They're using a new brand. Curious." He pushed it into the microwave and focused on the box as it twirled behind the glass.

When he turned around, Agnes had appeared, joining John at the dining table, the file placed squarely in front of them. Ethel jumped up to investigate, then pulled back, lip curling in distaste as she threaded her way past the humans and launched herself onto John's armchair. Sherlock was a defiant presence on the sofa. "Don't stand on ceremony. I've already been through the bloody thing. Twice."

They continued reading in silence. Sherlock attempted to ignore them. He  swallowed several derisory mouthfuls of noodle  before the thought of more left him close to gagging and he pushed them firmly onto the coffee table. When he swung his feet up against the leather seat, Ethel spotted the opportunity and took up residence on his stomach.  Her determined forehead repeatedly butted against his palm. The ceiling remained the truest sanctuary for his eyes whilst John and Agnes brought themselves up to speed. Ethel pawed at his chin, creeping further up his chest until her whiskers scratched his face.

Then there was the regretful scraping of chairs against the rug and the muted slap of paper  against time-furred cardboard. Agnes perched on the arm and cradled Sherlock’s head with her hand. John lifted his feet into his lap. “Who else knew?”

“No-one outside the immediate family and the relevant legal officials.” Sherlock blinked hard and stopped stroking Ethel. She pushed an offended paw up against his nose. ”We had never been much of a social family, so there would not have been many more to tell.” 

Agnes looked into his eyes. “That’s why you understood about Lucy.”

“To an extent." 

“And why you’ve never truly forgiven Mycroft.”

“That is an accurate assumption.” He didn’t need to look up to feel the concern rolling off John. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for him.”

Agnes, kept the pressure up on his scalp. “ He might have been older than you, but that didn’t mean he wanted this to happen.”

“I knew you’d take his side.I remain amazed that he didn’t brainwash you into taking up professional residence in his blessed Department.”

“What makes you think that he didn’t try? That would have been one step too close, and he respected that. _ Eventually _ .“

“Come to bed, both of you.” John was quietly emphatic. “There’s been enough revelations today.” Agnes shifted  in agreement; Sherlock arched a brow at the suggestion. “And what if I don’t want to?”

John tapped his feet. “Consider yourself on notice, or you’ll find yourself transported fireman-style.”

“ 'M too tall.” 

John 's lips curved in a soft smile, but his eyes glinted with fond determination . “Like that's stopped me before.”

“But not when you’re barely out of hospital yourself.“ Sherlock wriggled himself away, in a half-arsed attempt at autonomy. “If I must. Here or downstairs?”

“Upstairs. Our not-housekeeper changed the bed whilst we were out, bless her heart.”  _ So you’ll have your own space if you need it _ was the unspoken sentence written on John’s face. Sherlock’s throat was suddenly lumpen with awkward gratitude of being able to admit to physical weakness, even if it meant scrabbling for words in a long-deleted language.

He switched off the light and followed them upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters soon. Huge thanks as ever to 221BJen for her continued encouragement.


	16. Refuges sought and found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up first, and feels the need for solitude, if only briefly. But Ethel has other other ideas...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read at lightning speed by 221bjen

It was all Ethel’s fault that Sherlock woke just before seven. He had become used to the deliberate thwacks of her tail over his face, but the nose in his ear was a new tactic,as was the aggressively affectionate push against his hand as soon as he stirred.

Agnes shifted briefly when he edged off the mattress before she snuggled further into John's orbit. If he stayed, he would only disturb them, or worse still, intrude on their personal intimacies.  He was beyond grateful for their concern, even if it still seemed as though it was an act of sympathy rather than something to which he was genuinely entitled.

Ethel twined around his feet as he dressed in his own room, then casually ignored the food he left for her.

“Be like like that,” eyes glimmered with fond annoyance. “What then?”

She stalked to the door and assaulted the mat with prolonged and vicious energy. Sherlock shrugged on her coat, but crouched before fastening it. Ethel leapt up, settling into the safety of his arms. “If you must, but no wriggling. And put those claws to bed. How does the park sound?”

Her reply was the thunk of skull against his jaw.

“Very well. Quietly, mind.”

\---

Paddington Gardens was the refuge it had always been, especially when it appeared to belong only to Sherlock and Ethel. She sprang from the coat and settled on the bench seat. A squirrel stopped its descent nearest his bench and began swearing  in a stream of snarl and invective. Ethel, for her part, barely cast him a glance and returned to biting at the fur between her toes. Sherlock watched the shadows slink back into the corners. He counted the bricks opposite, spotting the patches of post-war brickwork. Two hundred years of history wrapped around him like armour.

His coat pocket jumped with his waking phone.

 Where’ve you gone? JHW

Paddington  Street Gardens. Communing with urban wildlife. SH

He sent a picture of Ethel. Someone wanted a walk. SH

Or more like a carry. SH

Sounds more like it. Why walk when a minion can carry you? AR

Don’t you mean consulting minion? SH

Come back via Tesco, would you? We’re out of milk. JHW

Only if there’s tea waiting for me. SH

That could be arranged. AR

 You OK? JHW

 As much as can be expected. See you shortly. SH

 --

“Apparently cats aren’t strictly allowed in Tesco.” Sherlock unbuttoned his coat. Ethel spilled out, back arching with faux annoyance.

Agnes laid a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t need to leave.”

“ I did. My choice.” He hung up his coat and turned back, coming face to face with John. Sleep had done him well, but little could loosen the furrow between his brows. “Tea’s brewing.”

“Good.” The concern in John’s eyes forced Sherlock to allow himself to be gently herded against the bedroom door. “Finding you gone gave me a moment I’d prefer not to repeat.”

“Apologies.” He allowed himself to push against John’s hand on his arm. The pressure grounded him. “Still getting used to this new world order. “ His mouth crumpled into a half-smile. “Next time, I’ll text, OK?”

“It’d be a start. Come on, get something warm inside you.”

“You are aware  that if I heard you saying that to anyone else, I would be so furiously jealous.” Agnes stood in the hall, a mug in each hand. “Just as well as it’s just you, I’ll forgive you both.”

 “Useful to be updated on the latest position on such matters.” Sherlock allowed them to shuffle him into the kitchen.

“And you’ll be eating as well.” John pushed the plate of toast in front of him. “At least a slice.”

“Practicing your parenting skills again?”

Agnes ruffled his hair as he sat down. “Well, if you act like a stroppy toddler…” But the toast vanished. Sherlock even took a certain pleasure in his portion.He flexed his hand against the table top while John stacked the plates.

“So what’s the plan for today? “

“Your expertise has been requested at Sigerson House. I understand that steps are being taken to release Mycroft’s treatment records from Great Ormond Street.”

Agnes paled. “Go without me. I’d prefer not to be there while Mycroft isn’t.”

John pulled her closer to him. “Would you prefer to go to Northolt?”

“Perhaps, even though I know that Mum will be there, and I’m not sure how that will go down.”

 A car pulled up outside. The front door opened and closed with discreet thuds. ”I doubt that will be a problem. “ Sherlock rose from the table. “If you’ll  excuse me…”

 --

”Marianne.”

She turned at the sound of her name. _Exhaustion, Anxiety. Grief. Guilt?_

“Sherlock.“ Her mouth tried to remember the shape of a smile. ”Will this take long?”

“No more than you wish it to.” He hovered at a discreet distance. ”Might I ask the state of play?”

“With Mycroft or with me?”

“Both.”

“Your brother’s condition continues to improve, although in smaller steps than was originally hoped.” She gasped at the air. “I should be grateful for remaining upright and functioning, given the last few days.”

“Albeit with the feeling of a gaping hole somewhere vital?”

She nodded. “How are things upstairs?”

“We are all nursing our pains,” he replied. “And whilst Agnes may find the idea of talking to you beyond her at this point, I believe that it won’t always be the case. She has expressed a wish to see Mycroft today, whilst John and I are engaged on a delicate matter elsewhere.”

“Do the police never give you rest?”

“This is not a matter for them, strictly speaking, at this point. I am not at liberty to say more.”

Worry darkened her eyes. “Be careful.”

“We will endeavour to do so, just as long as you do likewise, and allow yourself time to heal.”

“Sherlock Holmes, relationship consultant. When did that start?”

“When I finally began to understand and accept the love freely offered in spite of my failings.”

She leaned up and brushed her lips against his cheek. “I’m glad you’ve finally found a way to let people close enough to love you.”

“Still remains wondrous strange that they do.”

“It’s no less than you deserve. May I text you later?”

“Always, but try sleeping first.”

“Is that the new Sherlock speak for ‘you look a wreck’?”

His eyes crinkled. “If you interpret it as such.”

“Very well. Until later.”

He waited until the she was behind the locked door of the basement flat, then craned his neck around the foot of the stairs. Agnes was a heap of knees and elbows on the landing outside their flat, her face streaming with tears. She leaned into John, silent  and desperate and  earnest under the calming touch of his hands.

\----

[Paddington Street Gardens](http://myparks.westminster.gov.uk/parks/paddington-street-gardens-south/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used to work on Baker Street half a lifetime ago, in brighter and simpler times, and discovered Paddington Street Gardens whilst grabbing lunch. It feels like the perfect place for a consulting detective in need of a quiet spot.  
> More chapters on the way soon.


	17. Body versus Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is not the only one who dreams are tangled with memories as Martin's recovery continues. This raises questions of their own, but it helps to have a particularly talented colleague and a certain ex-army doctor ready to assist as needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to 221bjen, who continues to do serious beta work and Dragon transcription wrangling even when facing severe weather warnings!

_This was a half–remembered place, made up of undulating slopes of grass rolling down to a small patch of trees. The sun was bright and  warm, glinting against every shade of green. He ran and ran, stumbling happily after a bright blue ball, his toddler feet unafraid of the bumps in the grass. The ball bounced off a hidden stone and rolled into the patchy shadows beyond._

_All  confidence and courage slid away. He might have been brave for his age, but the absence of light and warmth, along with the fear of what might be lurking there caused him to slow right down. Nowhere here was forbidden to him, other than Mummy's sewing room, or his big brother's desk. If he ran back up to his family, begging them to help find his ball, there would be those amongst the family who would always tease him for being afraid of things that really weren't there. Brave boys, even those who were not quite three, were unafraid of exploring whenever they had the chance._

_Even so, his heart was pounding louder than the subtle crunch of twigs beneath his feet and his steps were cautious at first while his eyes attuned himself to the dark. Far above, unnameable birds sang into the sky. Some even flew between the branches, their wings clashing against the foliage as they found new perches. He stopped in his tracks and gazed up until the back of his scalp scratched against the label of his new T-shirt. He loved things that flew. Sometimes he pretended he was one of them, running across the open space, arms stretched taut like Spitfire wings._

_He had almost forgotten the reason for the quest when his foot stumbled against a tree root and the ground rose up to meet him. He rocked back into a crouch, noticing how his hands and knees were now pocked with tiny stones and twiggy fragments. He wriggled his fingers back and forth and watched as most of them fell away._ _His ball was there, perhaps four feet away, nestling amongst the roots of the tree that had tripped him. He inched forwards and scooped it into his arms, determined not to fall over again when he was so close to be claiming his prize and escaping back towards the sunshine._ _As he turned the sensation of unexpected company crept down the back of his neck with an icy chill. He glanced around the wood, suddenly, utterly sure that he wasn't alone. He froze, eyes straining from one edge of his vision to the other and back again, noting the position of every shadow. A beam of sunlight appeared, dazzling the very corner of his eye. He turned towards the brightness, determined to not scream at whatever monster was waiting for him. The glinting shifted with every step he took, as though bouncing off shifting scales, freezing when his steps faltered._ _The sunlight shifted once more, and the dazzle faded. The monster was nothing more than the battered statue of a deer, tarnished by neglect. He ventured forward, stroking a curious hand against the curve of one ear. A sharp edge pierced his finger and he drew back with a cry, pressing it to his lips. His mouth filled with a coppery tang, and his eyes stung._

\---

Martin woke on the floor, gasping for breath. “Oh sodding hell.” “What on earth are you doing down there?” Anthea half hung off the mattress until their foreheads almost touched.

“Not entirely- sure.” Her hand became a cradle for his skull. “Brain decided it wanted exercise - didn’t tell my legs...”

“Any further damage?”

“Nothing obvious. A hand up wouldn’t hurt, though.”

“Here.” She hauled him up with the kind of strength that still surprised him.

“Sorry.”

“For what? Having a dream and falling out of bed? Hardly your fault, but you’re going to make a habit of it, I may be tempted to apply appropriate restraints.”

His elbow jostled against her ribs. “Now there’s an interesting thought for the middle of the night…”

Anthea rolled her eyes. “Calm it, gorgeous. Not just yet.”

“But that wasn’t a no..”

“Correct.” She turned her on her side, and Martin fitted himself behind her, one arm a gentle clamp which secured her to the bed.

“I’ll hold you to that…”

He closed his eyes, focusing on the gentle huff of her breath against his arm. He knew he would be back in that dream wood again soon, whether he wished to be or not.

\----

“I want to get up."

Anthea ignored the plaintive voice behind her, but the hand spanning the back of her dress was another matter.

"Careful now. Don't need this creased. Some of us have standards of appearance to maintain."

"Blame the petulant patient in your care. I'd even come downstairs to defend your case..."

"Not required. You’re staying in bed."

"But I'm bored." Martin curled back on the pillows and attempted to look all pathetic through his brows.

She gave him a compensatory kiss."I'm only for ensuring that you follow your discharge instructions. I am expecting John in due course. If he's happy for you to be upright, you might be allowed to risk the chair later on."

"The sofa would be nicer, especially if I have some company…"

Anthea sighed. "Sweetheart, just because your anatomy has remembered how to take interest in the world at large doesn't mean that you're fit enough to act on its impulses. The last thing I want is to have to shuttle you back into hospital because you did too much, too soon." She stroked the side of his face. He turned just enough to kiss her fingers. "I need you here, recovering, because I'm not ready to sleep alone again."

“Oh, darling.” He jumped at the words coming from his own  mouth. “Is it okay to call you that?"

"Absolutely, but perhaps out of public earshot, eh? Somehow I know we'd never hear the end of it if Douglas heard."

"True." Martin eased back into the pillows. Deep down he knew she was right. If only his groin could accept that reasoning.

\---

He didn't remember falling asleep, but the discreet knock on the other side of the door certainly woke him.

"Morning. May I come in?"

"Sure. S'open."

A room containing John Watson had never seemed a bad thing to Martin. They had always managed to get along, even when the antics of their respective Holmes brothers had complicated matters. It was a Dr who came in today. "You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

"Well, being off the planet on analgesics is never good luck on anyone. How are things on your end?" John put down his rucksack. “I think today's state is fragile but holding. How about you?"

"Improving, mostly due to a certain individual acting as mother hen."

If John spotted the blush on Martin's face, he chose not to comment. A warm smile spread across his own face in recognition. "Got a few minutes before Himself starts shouting for his pen, so would you mind giving me the grace to examine you?"

"Most grateful if you would, to be honest, if only to persuade Anthea that I am actually recovering."

"I can imagine that she will get quite insistent on such matters.” John produced a penlight. "Okay, look straight ahead please…"

It wasn't the first time Martin had been subject to the professional attentions of John Watson, but it had been a while. He appreciated his brisk confident manner, all the while knowing full well the part which lurked beneath.

"How are you your pain levels?"

Martin gave him a half smile. "The prescriptions are working. Still pretty tired by late afternoon, but dropping isn't hard."

"Are you managing to stay asleep?"

"Mostly. Been dreaming more, probably due to being out of my usual habitat. No huge nightmares though."

"Any other changes to the operating systems – input, output, reaction to stimuli?"

Martin blushed again, but shook his head rapidly. "All appears to be returning to normal. Not that there's been any opportunity, so to speak."

"And that would explain the concern of a third-party regarding the safety of certain activities?" Less competent or caring doctors would have missed the miniscule jerk of Martin's head. "Rapid changes in your blood pressure might not be in your best interests at the moment, but the fact that you're able to express physical interest is a positive so soon after a head injury."

"Understood. When can I get up - into a chair, I mean."

"Today, for limited periods, but only if you go back  as soon as you feel the slightest bit tired."

"Reading?"

"Only on paper, in good light. Minimal screen time of any description. And no solitary baths either."

"In case I faint?"

"No – in case you drift off and then fail to wake up underwater." He noted Martin's nervous look. "More common than you think, and we've already had enough corpses lately."

"Noted.” He rebuttoned his pyjama jacket. "May I ask you something else? It isn't quite medically related but…"

"Of course. Doctor's right and privilege and all that."

"Would a person's NHS number identify who they really are?"

John frowned. "Potentially, but in what context?"

"The context of someone looking for biological family as an adult, after losing contact in the care system."

"Theoretically, Martin, but that isn't the whole issue. It's a step that shouldn't be taken lightly."

That earned him a side glance. "You're not usually one for saying the bleeding obvious."

"Maybe not, but there are situations where I've got a near legal obligation to do so. 'First do no harm' is a key concept."

"Along with paying close attention to not losing gloves or equipment inside a patient?"

John grinned. "Ha, ha. But seriously, make sure you're prepared for the outcome before you start investigating. Wouldn't hurt to ask about some professional support."

"You offering?"

"Not my field, I'm afraid, but I could hunt you out some recommendations."

"I'd appreciate that. Thanks."

"Leave it with me."

The floor creaked on the other side of  the bedroom door. "Dr Watson?” Anthea's voice was as professional as ever, but both of them could hear the concern it hid.

"All done.”

The door opened. Anthea's smile was a soft, bright thing which made John feel like an intruder in its presence. He shouldered his rucksack. "Right. Next item on today's agenda?"

"You'll see. No more practical doctoring required, unless your glowering thinky pixie has got creative in the kitchen…"

"I bloody well hope not. Bye, Martin."

"Bye. And thanks for the advice."

"Seriously, any time."

"Understood. Have a productive day."

"Oh, we will." He nodded at Anthea before descending the stairs and tactfully closing the library door behind him.

Anthea wrapped her arms around Martin. "Well, what did he think?"

He kissed her before responding. " I am making appropriate progress, and whilst my body might increasingly be up for anything, such activities are still off the menu for a while." _Kiss_ . "Unfortunately." _Kiss_. He felt the pressure of her smile against the curve of his neck.

"Nothing like a medic to put you straight on some things. Looks like I might need to be off on a short, entirely non hazardous mission this afternoon, but Arthur sent a text to announce he’d be by later with a duvet picnic."

"Won't you be eating?"

She shrugged. "Of course, but not entirely sure when. Depends on how the land lies, so to speak.."

"Can't argue with that. But how did he get clearance to come here?"

Anthea  was faintly bemused. "Who do you think is in charge of such as that when the Dark Lord himself is intellectually absent?" She blew fondly into his ear. "Douglas will be picking him up later on."

"Great. Could do with some mindful lunacy around here. Don’t want to keep you any longer, but can we talk later?"

"Nothing wrong is there?"

"Nothing more than usual." His hands stroked her face then retreated. “Nothing that can't wait until later."

Vague concern clouded her smile. "If you're sure…?"

"Absolutely. Just been thinking about some ancient history. Now go off and save the world."

She kissed him again, then left. Her eyes stayed on his until there was a door between them.

Martin took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. Watching her reminded him how much time had been wasted getting to this point. He hoped they'd have the chance to recoup it once the current crisis was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have three more chapters almost ready to go before I disappear into a non-transformative writing project for Camp NaNo. These will appear over the next week or so, time and technology depending.


	18. The Tangle of Records

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The atmosphere of Sigerson House is alive with questions, both aired and unspoken, as more evidence arrives. The emerging facts take their toll on Sherlock.

"Took your time." Sherlock pushed a coffee over to John as he sat down at the library table.  
"Merely fulfilling a professional request." Sherlock's face told an uncertain story. Fear? Concern? No – something close to envy. Well, that was a new look.  
"Likely to see the patient downstairs today?" There was still something odd Sherlock's tone John would have picked him up on it if not the arrival of Anthea.  
"Considering that he has to limit both screen and paper time I doubt it," she replied. "He's resting at the moment. His biggest problem is boredom."  
"And that would never do. I suppose you take such great care of all your fellow minions?"  
Anthea sighed. “We create our own families, Sherlock. I could bring up the increased level of donations that various homeless charities have received since a certain individual took up a semi-destructive tenancy in Baker Street, but I won't."  
"Yes, but my involvement ends at the personal, not the intimate…"  
There was a hitch in Anthea's breathing and the type of glare which generally stalled Ministerial morons in their seats.  
John frowned. "Vastly not good, you idiot. Save your deconstruction for those who deserve them."  
She nodded fractionally. “Your gallant courtesy is greatly appreciated. And as for you," She turned to Sherlock. "If you wish for my assistance in this matter to continue - and you will, I assure you - consider keeping a civil tongue in your head."  
"Understood."  
John looked over at Sherlock with ‘… and…?' in his eyes. Clearly more was required.  
"… I will ensure that my energies are appropriately focused away from unwarranted personal commentaries."  
Anthea’s smile was slight but sharp. "So shall we start again?" They nodded. "Excellent. What about some fresh air before we settle to the task?"  
– – –  
The garden was damp, but the day was brightening. "We've got about five minutes or so, so I'll make this quick. I need to speak to you both in confidence."  
"What are we doing out here?" asked John.  
Sherlock only just resisted the need to roll his eyes. "Concerns have been raised regarding DCI Spencer Harris of a number of sources. It appears that offices above my brother’s have been watching her for some time."  
"In what context?"  
Sherlock looked hesitant but Anthea was braver. "I have had some concerns on a personal level for some time, but, as her working relationship with Mycroft goes back almost as long as his connection with the Reynards, I did not feel I was best placed to question her position."  
"What exactly are we talking about? Extortion? Blackmail? Conspiracy to murder?"  
Sherlock swallowed down his worry as Anthea continued. "Perhaps all of them, and more. Spencer Harris has always been particularly clever, and did progress on her own merits as well as being the right individual full available at the right time in a certain political context."  
"But what does this all mean in the context of finding Sherringford?"  
"Everything and nothing, John. I believe Mycroft had got wind of Spencer Harris' connections some time ago, but was not in a position to act on them, Sherlock, did you ever question the coincidence that she was suddenly available to assist on such short notice? A recently-retired Royal Protection Squad officer at a loose end?"  
He huffed “There is always something that can be missed, but in hindsight the universe is rarely so lazy."  
"Precisely. I am of the opinion that the search may have been set up at this particular time in order to act as a distraction for Spencer-Harris, whilst another case goes on unnoticed in plain sight, so to speak."  
John was still very confused. "But are we still treating this as a missing person case?"  
Sherlock dug his hands further into his pockets. "Absolutely. I'd like to make amends for my mother's actions, whether Mycroft remains unable to do so or not."  
"Understandable.” John's eyes crinkled. He looked one of them to the other. "I have some ideas about that one. It may be easier than you think." Anthea cast him a sideways look. “Surely you're not thinking of misusing your professional access, Doctor?"  
"Only for the best of reasons."  
\---  
The doorbell rang as they returned to the library. Sherlock and John sat down as Anthea went to answer the door.  
Spencer Harris, looking tired despite her expert make-up, approached the table carrying a file held together by ageing rubber bands.  
"Good morning.” She handed the file to Sherlock. “It appears,” she began, “that Mycroft was thinking at least two steps ahead of us, as this was waiting for me this morning. Dr Watson, good to see you again."  
"Likewise." The lie came out smoothly. "Glad to be of assistance if truth be told. I'm sure we can find some of the answers we need amongst this."  
Sherlock tested the bands holding the file together, feeling them gasp their last beneath his fingers. "Where do you suggest we start, John?"  
It took two hours of unfolding charts, noting treatments and deciphering the scrawl of clearly exhausted staff before the hint of a trail was identified.  
John ran a finger along the chart. "Can you check the infusion dates for me, specifically in relation to the second relapse?"  
Spencer Harris looked up, oddly dazed for a moment. She blinked before focusing on the page in front of her. "Fifteenth of June 1983, then thirteenth of August and finally third of October."  
Sherlock made a note and waited for further details. "Any identifying details next to those?"  
"Looks like Siddon. Written against each one.” She looked across the table. "The name doesn't match any of the attendant staff. A clerical error perhaps?"  
"Let me see. “Sherlock craned his neck. " John, what is the likelihood of dyslexic medical staff in this period?"  
"Hmm. More of a possibility now than then. Why are you going down that track?"  
"Look." Sherlock pointed at the words. "That first 'd' is not as it should be.What do you think?"  
John stared at the notes. "I see what you mean, but it's also possible that the staff concerned recorded the reference incorrectly due to exhaustion. It happens more than people would realise, especially in the bad old days before the working time agreements."  
"What do you think this means?" asked Spencer-Harris.  
"It might be a code for identifying the source of the infusion which Mycroft received. To what else did Siddon refer?" He didn't say ‘’idiot’ at the end of that sentence but everyone heard it all same.  
"That is one possibility." Anthea, as ever was attempting to calm the situation. "Are there any other more detailed comments elsewhere in the file? In a narrative form rather than just notes perhaps?"  
John considered the question. "Have a look at the notes from the ward's social worker."  
Sherlock frowned. "Why would they have one of those?"  
John took a moment before answering. The note of puzzled annoyance in Sherlock's voice was grating even on him now. "Basic policy when children were long-stay patients," he explained. "An attempt to alleviate external pressures on the families involved."  
But Sherlock was having none of it. "And how effective that turned out to be," he growled.  
John tried again. “Perhaps not, but they could only help if at the family’s request, or if there were definite grounds for concern regarding neglect or abuse." His tone remained deliberately soft. "They may have been satisfied by what they saw, and left it at that. Your mother may well have put up a sufficiently competent and focused facade that the care team didn’t question her too closely on what was happening elsewhere.”  
“Clearly.” Sherlock’s glare could have burned holes through the table. “And no-one in that world-leading hospital ever thought to question why she had appeared to have ‘mislaid’ her youngest child…” He picked up the file and flung it across the room, shedding pages in mid flight.  
John extended a hand, but it was slapped away with the fury of an uncomprehending child as Sherlock fled the room, and then the house entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters are waiting in the wings....


	19. Two Wrecks Make a Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fragile Sherlock needs all the support John can give him. Thankfully some things are not in short supply.

John froze. The women exchanged glances, then began to collate the scattered pages in silence.

“We can continue with this.“ Spencer-Harris shuffled her collection of  papers into a neater pile. “He needs you more than we do.”

“Not entirely sure that he wants me to follow.”

“Tough.” Anthea raised an eyebrow in his direction. “Not up to him  Still plenty for us to look at without you.”

He recognised when he was beaten.

So now it was their turn to watch as he strode down the path towards the confusion of small trees which had offered Sherlock the privacy he craved.

“Sorry.”

John cocked his head to one side, regarding him with fond concern.“For what, precisely? You’ve snapped at my stupidity at some point every day that we’ve ever spent together, as well as a few that we haven’t. To be honest, the day that you _don’t_ find some fault with my worldview, I _will_ know that the apocalypse is upon us. So what are you really apologising for?”

“Melting down like an overstretched five year old.” John’s hand  was a soft touch on his arm.

“There is that, but quite frankly, the last few days would do that to anyone.” A frown pushed wrinkles into Sherlock’s face as he leaned into the contact. “Trauma will always find a way out.”

“And your mental health rotation was when?”

“In the tiny fucking gap between the dinosaurs and the Ice Age. But Afghanistan served as a bloody effective refresher course.”

“...before you found yourself dealing with a codependent addict.,”

“...who had eighteen months of broken nights because your ex-squaddie medic flatmate kept screaming the place down.”

“So we’re as bad as each other. Do two wrecks make a right?”

“Don’t you meant three? Agnes would be most put out if you mis-considered her.”

“Despite current events, I consider her the least broken of all.”

“Not that that’s much of a prize, at the moment, but it’s how she’s coping.”

“Why hasn’t she told me this?”

“Because, Captain Oblivious, she fears that the Sherlock Holmes, whom she’s known all her life, the idiot with a brain the size of the Moon and a heart the size of Jupiter, will find himself in the same position she did when Lucy died. Think about it. Absent father, remote mother and minus the sibling you believed would always be there.”

Sherlock crumpled.John struggled to keep them both vertical. “The only thing that is keeping me sentient is anger.” His breaths came in ragged gasps. “Sodding Mycroft. Ever the fucking showman, with little apparent concept of the damage it would cause.”

He pulled Sherlock’s head to rest against his stronger shoulder. “Bit harsh, there. He took my place as the best means to disrupt Reynard’s plans, right or wrong, especially as I wasn’t in the best physical shape to go chasing villains. He left the file on Sherringford in the event that you would possibly be able find to him, or at least find what actually happened when you were both too young to stop it. Families go by no rules except their own.” Sherlock was shaking under his hands. “The best that friends can do is reassemble the wreckage.”

“As you have done repeatedly.”

“Says the pillock whose presence stopped me trepanning myself with a bullet because he gave me  something to live for. The same wanker who threw himself off a building to save his friends, who also dropped everything when Agnes landed in A&E last year. You are loved and every time you hurt, it hurts us too.”

“So why do you do it?”

John’s hand was a soft shield against his cheek.“Because the highs are worth the lows, Sherlock, and always will be.You know, Martin Crieff does remind me of you in an odd way."

"How?"

"Sheer bloody mindedness, a certain recklessness regarding personal safety and the absolute determination to see something through."

"But lacking arrogance, fluctuating empathy and antisocial tendencies?"

"Something like that. I think you’d get on famously."

"Perhaps, but got my hands full with you and Agnes, and have no intention of changing  the situation."

"That's some reassurance."

"Against what?"

"Against the day when you realise that you feel the need to conform to societal norms and jettison any awkward third parties."

"Not likely to happen, you utter berk." John's hand clapped hard against his shoulder. "One of the reasons why Agnes and I work as a partnership is that we both recognise how empty our lives would be without you there. In more senses than one, and I'd rather live amongst chaos than in someone else's realm of perfect order."

The warm sincerity of John's words made Sherlock blink against his stinging eyes. "And what if I gave up the chaos for a life amongst bees?"

"Then I'd stock up on the antihistamines and calamine lotion and find a means to overcome my disinclination towards fuzzy buzzies." _Fuck it, his eyes were sparking now_. "Having experienced an existence before and after you, there's no way I'd happily accept a life without you in it."

"Likewise." Sherlock looked towards the house. "We better head back in."

"Only if you feel ready to do so.  I'm sure Anthea has it all under control."

"All the more reason, then."

John could pinpoint the second when they came back into full view of the library windows. A subtle determination washed over Sherlock's face, and when he looked back at John, the soft glances which had accompanied their private conversation had been concealed by his deducing carapace. "Into battle. Ready? " he whispered.

There was  a tiny nod. " As much as I ever have been."

– – –

Spencer–Harris looked up as they entered the library. "Better?"

"Sufficient for the circumstances, thank you,” replied Sherlock.

Anthea passed over a single sheet of paper. "I’ve been cross-checking the notes on the ward chart against narrative accounts elsewhere in the file. This code was referenced with all of them. BCLH15."

Sherlock stared at the code. "NHS number?"

"It would make sense," replied John.  "The predigital registration was combination less than numbers anyone born before about 1980 with a similar reference connecting their whole medical history."

Spencer-Harris glanced at the sheet. "And how straightforward would it be to trace this number to its recipient?"

"Not really a problem for someone with the correct access and permissions," he replied.

All eyes turned to Spencer – Harris, who shook her head. "Not my field. Not entirely part of the police remit."

Sherlock was unconvinced. "And what of your other connections?"

"Perhaps," she replied. "Anthea,who would you contact? More importantly who would you trust?"

Anthea pretended to consider the question. _Certainly not you_.

John had heard quite enough. "You do forget there's a doctor in the room. You might struggle to access that but I wouldn't. It might take a while, but providing that the search takes place on an approved network, it shouldn't be beyond the realms of possibility."

Spencer Harris frowned. As long as you would have no qualms about this?"

"Why would I? This is no different than going to Somerset House in order a birth certificate. Or being party to any information that the brother of the British Government unearths by whatever nefarious means."

Anthea nodded. "How long would it take you?"

"Depends on how accurate those records were. We are dependent on the veracity of 30-year-old notes probably recorded in haste."

Sherlock's thoughts pushed against John's under the table. "As clever as ever, John. Time to visit our favourite pathologist."

"You presume that she is in the lab," replied Anthea. "This week has taken a chunk out of her, too. If she's there, it will be on a paperwork basis. Seems like workaholic tendencies are infectious around here."

Spencer Harris clicked her pen. "Anything I can do to provide additional authority with the paper chasers?"

John grinned. "Just be there when I get hauled in front of the GMC for misuse of confidential data."

Anthea caught his eye. "That won't be happening. There are channels within channels, even in the absence of Mycroft."

"Just as well we’re on the same side then.” Spencer Harris stood. “I'm afraid I'll have to be off. There are a number of organisations demanding the attentions of the recently retired."

"Anything for a free consult?”

"There is no such thing."

Sherlock registered the comment as curious but schooled his face accordingly. "Your assistance is very much appreciated, however I might have reacted earlier."

"People cope with the emotional pressures in different ways. Thirty years in uniform taught me that."

John stood. "If I might walk you out?"

If Anthea was surprised at this choice, she didn't show it. She turned to Sherlock. "I’m fully aware that you view food purely as a necessary nuisance, but there’s plenty here for you both. I have to head towards the office for a meeting, but you’d be welcome to stay if you prefer to work here.“

"What about Mr Crieff?"

"He does prefer to be known as Martin most of the time.“

"Perhaps by you, I do  not feel worthy of such privilege as of yet. I do hope he continues to deserve your regard."

"I think you'll find that it's the other way around," she replied. "There is a great deal for which I'm still making amends."

"Such is the duty of all those who finally accept kindness in the spirit is offered." His eyes crinkled. "It took me long enough to realise such truth. Don't waste time in the fashion that I did."

_Well. This was new. Relationship advice from the Consulting Idiot._ "I'll bear it in mind, but thank you."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go before I am duty bound to turn to my non-transformative works, but I am determined to finish this, if only to share the story of what comes next.  
> Thank you for everyone who continues to follow this fic!


	20. The Art of Friendly Subterfuge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea goes out on a limb, asking Greg to bend the rules.

Greetings. Any opportunity for a semi-professional convo? AM

Can’t see why not. All OK with MC & MH? GL

As much can be expected in their own ways. This is an ethics issue. AM

And you’re asking me? Philosophy is not currently part of the Met’s CPD. GL

Well, who else can I ask? Suggestions welcome. AM

Point taken. Mol at Bart’s - where do you suggest? - GL

Neutral territory. Cafe Avalanche, next to Euston Square Tube. AM

Know it well. Half hour? GL

Sure. Just leaving Sigerson House. Will be there. AM

__________

There were two mugs on  the chipped formica table furthest from the door when Greg arrived five minutes ahead of time. He nodded at the bloke he half-recognised behind the counter and slid into the chair opposite Anthea.

“So what is this about?” His feet scuffed awkwardly against the lino. “I do hope you’re not recruiting me as a grunt for your latest coup.”

“Hardly.” She stirred non-existent sugar into her coffee. “But I do have a theoretical question for you.”

“Remember who you’re talking to, Anth. I deal with the actual, not theoretical musings. I get enough of those whilst wrangling the consulting idiot.”

Her demeanour softened. “Understood. But our paths have been crossing for the whole of my time with the elder idiot, and I would honestly appreciate your input.”

Greg wrapped a hand around his coffee. “OK, I’m all ears. How might I help?”

“How straightforward is it for evidence from a completed case to be retrieved?”

“For what purpose? If it’s to get some little shit who got put away on a dubious technicality, forget it. I had enough of Compliance crawling over every case during the Great Disappearance.”

Anthea’s response was a fond shake of her head. ”Nothing like that, I promise. But what might be needed is potential access to a DNA profile taken in evidence some years ago.”

“How far back?”

“Five years ago. One of Gregson’s cases. Attempted manslaughter, domestic violence and GBH.”

“Involving a surprisingly well-equipped taxi and driver, by any chance?”

“Precisely.”

“Why? There was no question about the case at all.”

“It would assist in the doubt regarding the identity of a particular individual without the explicit intrusion of a cheek swab.”

“Or the surreptitious acquisition of evidence left on a toothbrush or a comb?”

“Yes.”

Greg frowned. “Why are you doing this, coming to me instead of talking to Mol? I’m no scientist, and I wasn’t even directly involved in this case.”

“Because this comes far too close to home, in all senses of the word. There were three sources of DNA recorded as evidence in that investigation. What I’m asking for is the DNA profile of the male victim, to either prove or disprove a developing theory.”

“Why are you going behind Martin’s back? Sounds like this is a conversation that you should be having with him.”

Anthea sighed. “I’m aware of that.” Greg suddenly felt like he was interviewing a witness, not chatting to an almost-colleague.

“But….?” He tilted his head until their eyes met. The caution and fear he found there was disturbing. “What is all this really about?”

Anthea took time to compose her answer.

“This must go no further than the edges of this table.” She saw the struggle growing in Greg’s eyes. “Nothing illegal, I promise.”

“OK…”

“Martin’s childhood was somewhat unsettled. He grew up with foster parents, for reasons which have not been made clear. Recent events have crystallised the fact that he has no true sense of his actual identity, bar a few fragments of memory.“

“Shit. That’s tough.“

“Exactly. The most basic facts of his history made themselves clear when a background check was undertaken. Everyone has secrets, and so I just left it at that, because at the time we were barely colleagues, let alone friends.”

“Or anything else,” he supplied.

“But now we are. He hasn’t talked about it much, but I can see how much it is hurting him.”

“As I said, you need to talk this through with him. That kind of information is kept under wraps for obvious reasons. I’m sure he’d appreciate your help, Anth, but, at the same time, be damned careful.”

She looked at him directly, as though prompting him onwards.

“I’ll see what I can do. And I won’t breathe a word of this to Mol. No point causing further angst if it can be avoided.”

“Is she ok?”

“Seems tired out of her mind, mostly. And the hours I’m having to pull in regarding the two attempts on John’s life doesn’t help. Neither of those awkward buggers we collared are giving us anything. They’ve been remanded in custody pending trial, but we haven’t even got anything definitive regarding their identity, despite the best efforts of our colleagues at Parkside.“

“Then perhaps I can help. Send me what you can. See if I can shake something loose from this end.“ His face brightened with the beginnings of a smile. ”Thanks. WIll send something over.” He made to go, but found her foot blocking his against the table leg.

“Just don’t say anything to Spencer-Harris.”

“Really?”

Anthea nodded, deadly serious.

“If you know nothing, it should keep you clear of the fallout, but a few alerts may have blipped up. Nothing concrete, but watch what you say.”

“Sure. You do the same. Just stay in one piece, and stay in touch. “

“Will do. And - thank you.”

She watched him leave, then pulled out her phone.

All business completed. On my way back. AM

Glad to hear it. MC

How are you feeling? AM

Arthur sends his love. He’s currently making sandwiches, much to JW’s amusement and SH’s consternation. But there’s far too much duvet and not enough you. MC

And here we witness the adorable grouch of the lesser spotted Crieff in courtship mode.  AM

You find me adorable? MC

Amongst other things. Especially when sleepy. AM

And what when I’m feeling more ‘awake’? MC

You’ll find out when the doctors clear you for action. AM

Careful now. Talk like that could get you courteously propositioned as soon as we’re alone. MC

Now that’s an odd combination of words. AM

It continues to be an odd combination of days and emotions. Everything alright? MC

As much as it can be. AM

Hurry back. Still feeling the distance. MC

Not for much longer.  Just about to hit the Tube. You’ll hear from me when I surface. Will have a job for you. AM

I look forward to it. Don’t talk to anyone stranger than me. MC

No chance ;) . AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, I promise


End file.
